


G/t Prompt List

by yeenybeanies



Category: DC - Fandom, Marvel, Original Work, Red Dead Redemption
Genre: (for super hero stuff that is), Borrowers - Freeform, Canon-Typical Violence, Cussing, G/T, GT, Giant/Tiny, Merpeople, Mild Language, POV Second Person, Reader-Insert, Tiny people, gianttiny, individual warnings for each chapter will be in the summaries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-30
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:28:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 21,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26732872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeenybeanies/pseuds/yeenybeanies
Summary: repost from mytumblrthis is a collection of all the pieces i did for the G/t prompt lists of 2018 and 2019g/t prompt list
Comments: 9
Kudos: 34





	1. Discovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [2018 g/t prompt list](http://tiny-rook.tumblr.com/post/178463272795/this-prompt-list-is-brought-to-you-by-lilegite) #1: discovery
> 
> you had a nice, peaceful day of fishing ahead of you, but that plan went awry when you landed something far _bigger_ than you ever expected.
> 
> language warning

The water is peaceful. The sky is peaceful. The _day_ is peaceful. There’s a light breeze in the air, pushing little waves that gently lap against the fiberglass side of your boat. You sit in one of the comfy chairs aboard your modestly-sized vessel, a fishing pole settled in its holster to your left, and a beer in the cupholder to your right. There’s not much left in it, but the few swallows that do remain are warm and unappealing. You think it’s probably best to lean over and dump the contents overboard _**(**_ not the can, of course; you’re not a _monster_ _**)**_ and grab a new one, ice cold. That sounds like a good plan. And it is. It’s an excellent plan. The freshly-emptied can finds itself crushed in your hand and set into an impromptu garbage bag, leaving you free to head to the cooler for more refreshments. Maybe you could do with a snack, too, you think. You’ve been out here for a few hours now, resting in the shade, not _bored_ , per se, but definitely unstimulated. There hasn’t been so much as a nibble on your line. 

_U g h._ Your cooler’s on the other side of the boat. You kick yourself internally for not pulling it closer, for putting yourself in a situation where you have to get up. You’re also kicking yourself for being so goddamn _lazy_. It’s not that far. You’re hungry and thirsty. It’s not _that_ far. With a sigh, you push yourself up from your seat and give your fishing line a quick tug, testing it _**(**_ no surprise to find that there is _still_ nothing biting _**)**_ , then you leave your comfortable shade and cross over to the cooler. Its blue coloring nearly matches the ocean, you notice. _Hunh._ That’s interesting. It makes you smile. Your fingers brush some of the salty water off of the lid, then you lift it to rummage through the chilled contents. Beer and sandwich. That’s what you want. _Where the fuck is your sandw_ ––oh. There it is. 

Lunch in one hand and cold beer in the other, you pivot on your heel and head back towards your seat back in the shade. You get two steps forward when–– _ **wham**_ ––a sharp _jolt_ lurches both you and your boat to the side. You stumble, dropping your beverage in your attempt to remain semi-upright. _Sonova_ ––curses bubble under your breath as you cling onto a ledge until the boat stops rocking. Once it’s calmed down, you stand and grab the half-emptied can, frowning deep. So much for _that_ half of the plan. At least you have your sandwich. Frustrated, you take a bite, but it seems that’s all you have time for. A sharp, rapid _buzzing_ reaches your ears––your line _ **!**_ Something must be on your line _ **!**_ And something _big_ , too, if it’s taking off that quickly _ **!**_ You rush to your pole, sandwich held between your teeth, and give it a yank, hoping to hook whatever seems to be running away with your bait. 

You expect there to be a fight, like those you hear about from veteran fishermen _**(**_ and their dubious reliability _**)**_. You expect to stand here for an hour, maybe two, wrestling with this thing, until one of you eventually tires and gives in. What you intend to do with the presumed-leviathan, you’re not quite sure, but you’ll figure that out when you get there. That’s what you think. That’s what you _expect_. 

What you do _not_ expect is for the line to go limp. _Aww **!**_ That was barely a minute _ **!**_ Where’s your glory _ **?**_ Your battle _ **?**_ Where’s–––

_Oh holy mother of goddamn shit…_

A massive fin slips up from the water only a few yards from your boat as the leviathan slowly rises from the dark, murky depths of whatever _hell_ exists beneath this particular stretch of ocean. It has to be at least as tall as you––taller, even. You can’t quite see what it’s attached to yet, but you know you were right on one thing: _this fucker is big **!**_ And you imagine it’s probably pissed off. _**(**_ Can fish get pissed off _ **?**_ Is this even a _fish **?**_ It’s as big as a goddamn _**whale!**_ _**)**_

There’s another yank on the line, pulling the very pole from your hands. You barely notice, though; you’re frozen, preoccupied with the sight before you. There’s your pole, dangling from what _appears_ to be a _massive fucking hand_ that’s sticking out of the water. That is _definitely_ bigger than you, big enough to snatch you right from your boat. It’s horrifying as is to see one, but the second one scares you more when it _slams_ against the ledge, those big, clawed and webbed fingers bending the metal and fiberglass under them. The boat lurches again, jolting you towards the ledge, close enough to where you could touch that giant hand if you wanted. _But you sure as hell don’t want to **!**_ Sandwich still gripped in your mouth, you try to push away, try to scramble back, despite the incline behind you getting steeper by the second. It’s not really working in your favor. You hear things slide and shift around, hear the boat groan under the weight. You think this thing’s going to flip your boat _ **!**_ Until it very gently seems to ease off the pressure and lower the vessel back down. You lie flat on your back, stiff, staring up at the clear sky. _What the hell **?**_

It only makes sense that if there’s two giant hands, there’s probably a giant head to match, but that doesn’t make the sight any less _fucking terrifying_ when it greets you. It certainly doesn’t help, either, when that head looms over you, over your boat, like a child peering down into a hamster cage. Unfortunately, you’re not used to being the _hamster_. You can’t even scream out, though; your forgotten and soggy sandwich still blocks your mouth. At this point, you don’t even know if you have it _in_ you to scream, certainly not when those big eyes lock with yours. You can’t look away from this … _being_. You can’t blink. It’s **so goddamn huge** ––bigger than anything you’ve ever seen. 

Okay, maybe you _can_ look away. The creature raises its giant fist, and you instinctively curl in on yourself, shielding your head with your arms _**(**_ as if that would do you any good _**)**_. Your expectations, though, seem to be very off today. Where you expect to feel the briefest moment of pain and death, crushed under that hand, you feel nothing but the light breeze and sunshine. There is a _thud_ to your left, though, dull and soft. You peek from under your arms to see your fishing pole dropped onto the deck, fishing line keeping it suspended just a little. Following that line, you see that the hook at the end is–– _oh god_ , it’s lodged into the leviathan’s _face **!**_ Just beneath its lower lip, towards the right corner of its mouth, is where that hook finds its home. You can see the metal glinting among the dark, curly hairs at the edge of the being’s beard. And the being is looking at you… _expectantly_. 

No. Fuck no. No _fucking_ way. You are not going _near_ that thing–––

Then you hear it––him _ **?**_ –– **g r o w l**. Were you not five seconds from shitting yourself, you might notice that it doesn’t sound like an _aggressive_ noise, rather more like an encouraging one, but you couldn’t possibly know such a thing. Again you cower, finally spitting out your ruined lunch so you can shout out a panicked _okay **!** _okay. You’ll…––well, it’s _your_ fault that there’s a hook in the creature’s face. The least you can do is get it out and hope that he doesn’t decide to eat you. 

Shakily, you push yourself to your knees, then to your feet. But your feet aren’t wanting to move any further. You’re rooted in place, shaking like a leaf in a hurricane, staring at the leviathan. He produces another growl, softer this time, but it still makes you flinch and close your eyes. _Fuck fuck fuck fuck_ **!** You can’t do this _ **!**_ Why can’t he just pull the hook out himself _ **!**_ It’d be like removing a burr, wouldn’t it _ **?**_

The boat tilts once more, slowly, sending you stumbling towards the giant. You thrust your hands forward, meeting the being’s cheek as you brace yourself. His skin is… far rougher than you expected, like fine-toothed sandpaper. It reminds you of times as a kid when you got to touch those little sharks in aquariums. Hot air blows against your side, startling you. _Breath_ , you realize. The being is breathing. _Shit_ , he is so fucking _**big**_ … His head is taller than you. His mouth…––you don’t want to think about his mouth. You don’t want to _know_ what kind of teeth lie behind those lips. But it’s hard _not_ to think about it; you’re _right fucking here_. Still softer, the being rumbles. The hum travels through his skin, into your flesh, your bones. **Okay.** Alright. Okay, big guy. the sooner you can do this, the sooner the _both_ of you can _**hopefully**_ get on with your lives. You’re **never** going near the ocean again. 

Your voice is shaking just as badly as the rest of you, but you try to talk, more to yourself than the being, saying that you can get the hook out and everything will be okay. There’s also some nervous _please don’t eat me after, mister sea giant_ s in there. Much to your dismay, the hook is buried pretty well into the tough skin. It doesn’t seem to hurt the being when you tug, but it’s not something you really want to test. Luckily, your hands seem to ease their shaking a _little_ as you force yourself to focus––enough so to where you can actually make some progress. A few more minutes, a few more little tugs, and the hook slips free of the sandpaper skin. 

_**Thank fucking god.**_

You hold the hook up triumphantly so the leviathan can see, feeling more relief than you’ve _ever_ felt in your life. That relief is short-lived, however. The fear is quick to return as the beast flexes his jaw and rubs a finger over the space where the hook was. You catch a glimpse of those sharp teeth, that big tongue, just beyond his lips. You step back as much as you can, but he notices your movement, and he’s quick to counter it. You scream out as his hand surrounds you. Yet… you feel no pressure. You only feel the slight warmth radiating from the giant palm and fingers around you. Tentatively, you look out, meeting the being’s eyes. They’re shockingly human, you realize. There’s _emotion_ in those deep, brown pools. Another yelp leaves your throat as you’re nudged closer, pulled into his looming shadow. _He’s gonna eat you **!** You’re about to be seafood **!**_ Your shaking starts up again––not that it ever really _stopped._ You watch in horror as the being leans in. _This is it **!** This is the end_–––

But this isn’t it. Impossibly gentle, its his forehead that meets yours, the scratchy skin resting against you. He must know, though, that you’re scared shitless; he backs off quickly, releasing you to scurry away as you please. What the hell was that _ **?**_ Was that a…––a show of _gratitude **?**_ You blink, now backed up to the other side of the boat, as far away from the being as you can get. You _swear_ you can see a little smile on his lips as he retreats from the side of your vessel, his hands disappearing back beneath the surface. His head remains above, though. Once he’s several feet away, you carefully, hesitantly move to the ledge he’d occupied. he’s… _leaving_. He’s leaving you alone _ **!**_ You watch as he gives you a parting nod, then he twists and dives into the water, his massive body sending waves out in all directions. It’s hard to see, but you swear you could spot several jagged, parallel scars along his back and side lap the surface, like something you’d see on a shark or a dolphin that was hit by a boat. Then comes his tail fluke, truly _gargantuan_ , but missing at least _half_ of the top lobe _ **!**_ It’s just occurred to you now that this being––what you’ve just seen––is a fucking _mermaid_. Merman _ **? Mer.**_ Despite your awe and your lingering fear, you feel a pang of guilt in your chest as you watch that mutilated tail vanish into the darkness. That creature… he’d already been hurt by human things in the sea… No wonder he wanted you to fix him. Your hook, you doubt, truly _hurt_ him _**(**_ more of a discomfort, if anything, you imagine _**)**_ , but you still feel bad. You hurt a _mer_. 

You watch the waves for a few moments longer, then you bow your head and breathe out heavily. It feels like you’d been holding your breath through that whole encounter. _Damn._ Well, that’s enough fishing for one lifetime. That’s enough **ocean** for one lifetime. You don’t think you _ever_ want to encounter something like that again. You’re still a little shaky, but you gather up everything that’s fallen out of place and secure it down in preparation for your departure. You’re ready to be _off_ this boat and back onto dry land. Once up at the wheel, you twist the key in the ignition, but the engine… sputters. _Oh no._ You try again, a bit more vigorously, and the resulting sputter is even _weaker_. You’re out of gas. What the fuck _ **!**_ Can’t you catch a break _ **?**_ All you wanted was a nice, relaxing day on the water _ **!**_ You didn’t ask for giant-ass mermen or shitty boat problems _ **!**_ You yell out in frustration and pound at the dashboard, head hung limply. How the hell are you going to get out of this one _ **?**_ Should you call the coast guard _ **?**_

Then you hear it again: _that fucking growl_. It’s more of a feeling, this time, sent up through the boat, up into your body, but it’s definitely a growl––the _same_ growl. You look up, eyes wide, body shaking again, to see that giant fin heading back towards your vessel. 


	2. Protect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [2018 g/t prompt list](http://tiny-rook.tumblr.com/post/178463272795/this-prompt-list-is-brought-to-you-by-lilegite) #2 : protect
> 
> life's tough for a borrower in New York City. Adding humans with crazy claws that fight each other to the mix makes things even tougher. 
> 
> this one has some strong language and violence.

Why is nothing ever _normal_ in this city _ **?**_ **NEW YORK CITY** , as the humans called it––the _**big apple**_. You don’t really understand why it’s called a _**“**_ big apple _**”**_ ; you’d expect there to be more apples around with a name like that. But it’s not the lack of apples that really has you so perplexed; it’s more the fact that there’s _always_ something going on––some _**grand event**_ that requires at least one of New York’s plethora of **super heroes** to come to the rescue. It makes your life and your borrowing so much harder. Not even the night is safe for you. There’s always a risk of some villain popping up, and some hero to come and wreck his night. Really, though, it’s **your** night that’s getting wrecked. And your _life_ _**(**_ as if it’s not already hard enough as is _**)**_. 

The night air is chilly, wind blowing. From your spot in the storm drain, you can see the giant pieces of litter skittering along the streets with the big gusts. That is a problem. If you’re not careful, you could get blown away. That’s happened before; it’s not fun. Your cold-weather bundles should minimize any scrapes and bruises you’d get from a wind-caused tumble, but it’s still something you’d like to avoid altogether. You just have to keep low, and take cover when need be . . . It’s like avoiding humans, but _harder_. 

You listen carefully. The wind rushes by, prompting you to duck a little more into the drain. This is not going to be an easy or particularly _fun_ borrowing. They never are anymore. You remember as a child your first borrowing, being so excited to go out into the world, leave your coveted life, ready to bring home food for your family. Your first time was fun. But that was years ago. You’re grown now; you know the hardships not only of being a borrower, but being a borrower _alone_. 

Now isn’t the time to dwell on that, though. 

There’s what appears to be the discarded remains of a half-eaten hot dog across the street, propped up against the curb. The meat wouldn’t last very long, but the bread could probably feed you for a few days. You just need to get over there, and you need to drag the food back over _here_. As of right now, the wind seems to be your only adversary. The street seems unusually quiet, but you’re not going to complain. The fewer humans about the better. 

Once the gusts die down, you seize your opportunity. There’s no telling when another gale is going to rush through, so you have to be fast. The street is wide, but your legs are quick. You reach the abandoned hot dog in record time, just before the wind picks up again. Dragging it across _should_ weigh you down enough to make the journey back less treacherous, if not slower. _Tradeoffs._ You take a moment to catch a few quick bites of the link, then grab the crinkly paper wrapping and start to pull. It doesn’t help your anxiety any that the scraping wrapper on asphalt is louder than you expected it to be, but there doesn’t seem to be too much you can do about it. You can only keep moving. _You can do this._ You can do this. 

The wind, however, seems to have different ideas. It rushes at you with unfounded fury. You cling to the wrapper, hoping, _praying_ , that it will end before you lose your grip, but when are you _ever_ so lucky _ **?**_ The wind blows, and your fingers slip, sending you tumbling back, rolling in the middle of the street with any other pieces of litter caught in the gust. You close your eyes and cover your head, doing your best to not yelp and cry out with every painful bounce against the pavement. For a moment, you think the wind might never stop, that you’re destined to roll like this until you expire, but then you hit something. Fucking _ouch_. . . Dizzy and disoriented, you try to regain your bearings as quickly as you can. You need to get back to your food. You need to get back to safety with your food. You need to–––

Oh _fuck_. You hadn’t noticed immediately, but now you see: the thing you slammed into isn’t a curb or a car tire like you’d thought; you are still very much in the middle of the road, and you’ve been thrown mercilessly against a giant boot. In that giant boot, too, is a giant human, staring down at you with the most confused look on his rough, prickly face. By the Gods, he’s the most terrifying human you’ve ever seen, but his surprise seems to match your fear in magnitude. His lips part some, just enough for you to catch a glimpse of his large, longer canine teeth, and he breathes in like he’s ready to speak. Like you, though, it seems he isn’t the luckiest fellow. Before he can get anything out, another, much _larger_ human drops seemingly out of nowhere and slams into him, sporting . . . claws _ **?**_ And even _bigger_ teeth _ **?**_ He’s more beast than man _ **!**_ This is not how you remember humans looking _ **!**_ You try to scurry away, get out from underfoot of the clashing humans. Their fight seems to shake the very ground, and the savagery on display–– _shit **!**_ Red, sticky, and unnervingly hot, it’s _blood_ that splatters onto you and the streets. You _do_ scream now, hands up to wipe the red from your face. It’s _so much_ , and it’s so **gross**. Yet, when you look up again at the brawling humans, you see the one you’d run into clutching his throat, and the bigger one smirking. _Did he just kill that bean **??**_

That’s not your problem. You push yourself to get footing in the pool of blood, and you bolt––or you _try_ to _._ The red-slicked street is hard to keep purchase on, even for you, and the wind is not helping your case. You fall again into the puddle. Gods, you think you might vomit. Another attempt and another slip tell you that you might need to crawl out of this one, or just wait it out. _How much blood can one human lose **?**_ _How is he not_ ** _dead?_** You know he isn’t; you can hear the two still fighting just a few feet away. Both humans are making such horrible noises, both with their throats and bodies. On top of the roars and yells, there are sickening _squelches_ and **snaps** , like they’re tearing each other apart, but you’re far too terrified to look back, or to look up at all. No, you keep your head down an covered––not that it would do you any good if you happened to get stepped on. 

It’s unclear how long the fight lasts. By the time the sounds come to a stop, finalized with one agonized groan, it feels like a whole week has passed. You still keep yourself curled up, protecting your head. It’s when you feel the vibrations from heavy, approaching footsteps that you snap out of your freeze state and back into your _flight_ state. Once more, you push yourself up and try to run on the soaked road, and do actually manage to get a few steps in, but you’re forced to stop again. Three long, terrifyingly sharp blades––sharp enough to puncture the _asphalt_ ––slam down inches in front of you, making you slip and fall back in your attempts to avoid running into them. Your eyes travel up the glimmering edges, up to a bloody human hand, from which they seem to originate. _What the fuck **?**_

_**“**_ Just a minute there, bub, _**”**_ comes the raspy, booming voice from far above and behind you. You watch as the blades slide back into his knuckles, a little disgusted, very confused, and _very_ scared, then you whip your head around to see his face. It’s the first human––the one you ran into. He’s covered in more blood, some of his clothes torn, but otherwise he seems uninjured. _How . . . **?**_ _**“**_ Don’t run. I’ll catch you. _**”**_ _Yeah, he will._ You couldn’t outrun him in the open like this even he _didn’t_ have you pinned down. Even in the dark, through the blood caking his face, his eyes still seem to shine. They pierce through you, leaving you frozen. 

_**“**_ just, uh–– . . . _**”**_ You struggle to get your words out as is, but everything stops when you see a big shadow looming over the human. It must have been the terror in your face that tips him off. He whips around faster than you can _blink_ , those silver bladees out again. It looks like it’s round two for them, but you’re in the middle of it this time. You shriek as the human falls towards you, only just managing enough control to keep from landing on you. He’s bleeding again. This time, though, you’re close enough to see the horrific wounds knit themselves back together. _Gross **!** What the hell is this **?**_ You duck as he seems to curl over you, like he’s shielding you from the man above him. The sound of fabric and flesh tearing reach your ears over his grunts and gasps, along with the soft, sickening sound of more blood dripping onto the ground. 

_**“**_ _Do something **!**_ _**”**_ Your voice is barely a squeak, but the human seems to hear it well enough. He grits his teeth and lets out a growl that makes you flinch. In a flash, he’s pushing himself up again, claws humming in the air, tearing holes in his enemy’s body. You can’t look. You’re certain you’d hurl if you did. It’s the waiting game again. This time, though, you stay put, curled in on yourself, even when you hear the brawl end. 

_**“**_ You alright _ **?**_ _**”**_ His voice is above you again, this time with a poke to your side. You opt to play dead right here in this puddle of blood. Maybe he’ll leave you alone if you––– _**“**_ I know you’re still _alive_ , bub. _**”**_ What _ **?**_ _How **?**_ _**“**_ That guy’s gone. Ran off with his tail between his legs. Come on. _**”**_ As soon as you feel two digits pinch you on either side, you squirm and shout, trying to wriggle free, but it does little to nothing to stop you from being lifted up _up **up**_. The rest of his fingers join and wrap around you, securing you in his hold from your waist down. There’s a bit of a squeeze, but not enough to seriously impede your breathing. You stare at the human, eyes wide, body shaking. 

_**“**_ Not hurt are you _ **? ”**_ You’re covered in blood, but none of it’s yours. You aren’t sure if that makes it more or less gross. 

You stammer a little, but manage to tell the human _no_ , you’re not injured. You’re _terrified_. _**(**_ You keep that part to yourself, though you suspect he can tell. _**)**_ His free hand comes closer, making you flinch. He stops.

 _ **“**_ _Easy_. You think I made a point not to crush you in the fight so I could do it now _ **?**_ _**”**_

You don’t know. You don’t know him. All you do know is that he’s more dangerous than most other beans. He’s certainly more dangerous than any bean you’ve ever seen. You flinch again as you’re brought closer, more eye-level, that other hand cupped under the one that holds you. 

_**“**_ Got a name _ **?**_ _**”**_

You don’t answer. 

_**“**_ What _ **?**_ Not talkin’ anymore _ **? ”**_ He huffs a sharp breath. You flinch yet again. _**“**_ _Right._ I’m Logan. _**”**_

So now you have his name. It doesn’t make the situation any less of a nightmare. You’re still shaking, scared shitless, and you’re covered in other peoples’ blood. You aren’t even hungry anymore, the discarded hotdog all but forgotten. All you want now is to go home. Why won’t he just put you down and leave _ **?**_ He’s caused you enough distress for _five_ lifetimes. 

Even if he did _**(**_ _kinda_ _**)**_ save your life. 

Quietly you mutter your name. You think he might not hear it, but his reaction says otherwise. His hand opens up, letting you slip down to be cupped in both. Quickly you right yourself to sit up, albeit curled in on yourself, knees to chest.

 _ **“**_ Alright then, _**[**_ Y/N _**]**_. _**”**_ How good is this guy’s _hearing **?**_ You don’t get much time to ponder, though. The world shifts abruptly; you squeak as you fall to your side, pressed to his palm. He stood up, you guess. Gods, you don’t even _want_ to look over the walls his hands have formed. You’re already scared and queasy enough as is. No need to get sick in the human––in _Logan’s_ hands and piss him off. 

_**“**_ Please... put me––please put me down, _**”**_ you plead, not looking up at him. He’s looking at you, though. You can feel his gaze boring into your back. 

_**“**_ In a sec. I’m gonna get you out of the open. _**”**_ He starts walking, the movement jostling you again. You shift to counter it as best you can, and sit up. This is your first time being held, and hopefully your last. Logan’s hands are bloody, and now you know that there are giant-ass _knives_ that pop out of his knuckles. You feel like you’re in a death trap that could spring and end you at any moment. 

_**“**_ So if I just set you down over here, you gonna be––– _**”**_ he stops mid-sentence and looks up to the sky. You follow his gaze, stiff, expecting another horrible human to pounce, but you find a different monster waiting. The clouds above have since darkened, looking ready to burst. And burst they do. In a matter of seconds, there’s heavy rain pounding down on the both of you. It’s a torrential downpour. You try to avoid the giant, cold drops by hiding more into Logan’s hands. He curls them to accommodate, and brings you closer to his chest. 

Rain is not your friend here. Rain this heavy could kill you. The wind swept you away easily enough; the water could do it ten times more effectively. Logan seems to guess this. 

_**“**_ New plan. You can stay with me until this clears up. _**”**_

That sounds like a terrible plan. You don’t like that plan at all. 

_**“**_ I’ll take you wherever you need to go after, alright _ **?**_ You don’t have to lead me right to wherever you live; just give me somewhere to set you down and you can be on your way. _**”**_

That sounds a little better. You still don’t like it, but it . . . sounds better than getting washed away into a storm drain. Much as you hate to admit it, too, his warm hands are preferable to the freezing rain. Tentatively, you nod. 

Logan starts to walk again, and you huddle into his curled fingers. He holds one hand to keep the rain off of you. The water that trickles through, though, is cleaning the blood off. You take a few drops that have warmed up on his skin and wash your face and arms as best you can. It makes you feel a little better. 

Logan isn’t particularly talkative. You appreciate that. Talking to a being many times your size is **terrifying**. Being held and dealing with the swaying from his walking takes some getting used to, but you think you’ve mostly got the hang of it after a few minutes. It’s still weird, but a borrower is nothing if not adaptable. 

You don’t know how long it takes or how far you go, but you eventually feel Logan come to a stop again. The hand that’s been shielding you from the rain retreats, diving into one of Logan’s pockets to pull out some keys. He unlocks the door and pushes it open, revealing to the both of you the room within. It’s nothing fancy. There’s a bed, a dresser, a little kitchen, a bathroom, and a television opposite the bed. It doesn’t look like Logan has many personal effects, save for some books and a duffel bag. He’d be a _terrible_ host to borrow from, you think. You don’t say anything, though, as the two of you enter the room. Logan locks the door, then carries you towards the bathroom. He keeps his fingers cupped around you, and turns on the faucet, letting it run until it warms. 

_**“**_ Here, _**”**_ he grunts, the hand carrying you coming closer to the water. You shrink back a little, fearing that he’s going to just hold you under the water stream, but he doesn’t. He stops when his fingers touch the stream, giving you the option to come toward it as you please. You hesitate a moment, then you pick your way closer and hold your hands to the water. Its warmth seeps into you. Quickly, you wash yourself over again with this water, cleaning off your face, your hair, and any other exposed skin. Once you back off, Logan moves his hand to the counter and tilts, signaling you to get off. Now it’s his turn. You discard some of your outer layers––everything that’s soaked in blood––then watch him, letting your eyes wander to the rest of him. His clothing is torn to shreds along his back, and stained red. There are no wounds, however. None whatsoever. You saw it earlier, but you’d dismissed it as a trick of the light, or some sort of terror-induced hallucination. 

_**“**_ You’re . . .–you–you’re not hurt . . . _**?**_ _**”**_

_**“**_ Nah. _**”**_

_**“**_ But you––– _**”**_

_**“**_ I heal fast. _**”**_

_**“**_ What . . .–––– _**”**_ you pause, brows furrowing. First he has knives coming out of his hands, then he has some crazy good hearing, and now he’s got crazy fast _healing_. _**“**_ What _**are**_ you _ **?**_ _**”**_

The question has Logan turning, his gaze landing right on you. You gulp and scoot back a little, but he makes no movements towards you. Still, it spooks you. You definitely don’t want to anger him at all. 

_**“**_ I-I . . .–––– _**”**_

_**“**_ I’m a **mutant**. What are _you **?**_ _**”**_

That didn’t really answer your question. But being asked in return makes you realize how rude it was. You shuffle nervously, looking away. 

_**“**_ I’m, uh––I’m a borrower. _**”**_

You don’t know if he knows what that is either, but he nods and returns to his washing. You fall silent, and let your eyes wander back over to him––mostly his hands. Idly you run your fingers over your own knuckles, mirroring the spaces where those claws of his came out of. You don’t see any sort of . . . gap in the skin where they’d slide through. 

_**“**_ Does it . . . hurt _ **?**_ _**”**_ Logan glances at you again, looking a little confused, and sees you staring at his hands. Surely he gets asked this all the time. 

_**“**_ Yep. Every time. _**”**_ He doesn’t seem too interested in elaborating, either, which leaves it up to your imagination. Every time he wants to use those claws, they have to . . . what _ **?**_ Tear through his skin _ **?**_ That’s morbid. That’s gross. You grimace. 

_**“**_ Alright. I’m gonna shower. _**”**_ The hand nearest you lifts and moves towards you, making you shrivel back on instinct. It pauses, hovering over you. _**“**_ _**Relax**_ , bub. I told you, I’m not gonna hurt you. _**”**_ Easier said than done. You force yourself to stay still and minimize your shaking as those fingers curl around you, lifting you up. You hold onto his thumb for some security as he carries you out of the bathroom, and hop off once he lowers his hand onto the bed. 

_**“**_ If you run off while I’m gone, know that I’ve got your scent and I _can_ track you down. _**”**_ What the _**hell?**_ He’s got a good sense of _smell_ too _ **?**_ You blink up at him. _**“**_ But I’m not **gonna** if you do. You run off, and you’re on your own, bub. You can find your own way back to wherever you need to be. _**”**_

Okay. Sounds fair. You nod, and Logan turns to his dresser to grab some fresh clothes, then he disappears back into the bathroom. You wait until you hear the shower turn on before you move at all. Force of habit; you’re used to being still _**(**_ and _hidden_ , ideally _**)**_ until you can hear that the danger is either distracted or gone. Carefully you pick your way along the comforter, heading towards the pillows. You’re still wet, and colder now that you’re not under hot water or _**(**_ much as you hate to think this very thought _**)**_ near Logan. The next best thing is to push your way in between the pillows and curl up just under one of them.

You find yourself jumping when the bathroom door opens again, and push yourself further under the pillow on instinct. You stiffen with each _thud_ , each step Logan takes. 

_**“**_ _**[**_ Y/N _**]?**_ _**”**_ You can hear something sliding over the comforter––his hand, presumably––and curl a little more into yourself when those fingers lift the pillow you’ve taken residence under. _**“**_ You alright _ **?**_ _**”**_ You stare up at him in silence, eyes wide. He looks different now. He’s in a tank top, and his hair’s still wet. Plus, he’s no longer caked in blood. He’s . . . very _hairy_ , you realize. It’s not just his face . . . 

_**“**_ _**[**_ _Y/N_ _**]**_. _**”**_ Right. You nod. Yes, you’re okay. That seems to be enough for him. His eyes shift to the far window, and yours follow. It’s still raining outside. It’s still _pouring_. It’s not going to be letting up any time soon. Logan seems to come to the same conclusion. He breathes out a heavy sigh and slides onto the bed. The mattress groans and bends under his weight _**(**_ way more than you’d think, but you also don’t really have any gauge of how much humans weigh _**)**_ , its deformation jostling your position and making you tumble down towards him. You land with your back against his thigh, the fabric of his boxers smooth on your skin.

 _ **“**_ Gonna have to stop doing that, bub. _**”**_ _Like you can help it_. You _almost_ give him a sharp retort, but all you produce is a little squeak when his hand comes down and scoops you up. You struggle for a moment until you can sit up in Logan’s palm, and look up to see him staring at you. That will never _not_ be scary. 

_**“**_ Rain’s not letting up tonight. Maybe in the morning. _**”**_ He bounces you once in his hand, making you grab onto his thumb to stay upright. _**“**_ I’m gonna sleep at some point, so it’s the same deal: if you’re still here in the when I wake up, I’ll take you wherever you want to go; if not, I’m not coming to find you. _**”**_ Again you nod. You understand. You have the whole night to ponder whether or not you want to risk your life _with_ this human or _without_ him. 

_**“**_ Hungry _ **? ”**_

_**“**_ Hunh _ **?**_ _**”**_

_**“**_ Your stomach keeps growling. _**”**_

You look down and cover your stomach with your arms, embarrassed. It’s _weird_ that he can hear that. What else can he hear _ **?**_ Can he also read your thoughts _ **?**_ _**“**_ I, uh, I was––I was, uh, getting food when we . . . _met_. _**”**_ Obviously, you didn’t _get_ your food––not much of it, anyways. Those few bites of hotdog were hardly enough to satisfy. 

_**“**_ From _where **?**_ _**”**_ You don’t like the look he’s giving you. He looks like he’s _judging_ you. 

_**“**_ The, uh, _street_. _**”**_ It’s perfectly normal to you, but the way he’s looking at you says that he thinks otherwise. 

_**“**_ You’re eating shit off the street _ **?**_ _**”**_ He scoffs, the air rustling your hair. He shakes his head and stands, with you still holding onto his thumb, to walk to the kitchen. Cold air from the refrigerator being opened rushes against your skin, making you grimace. Thankfully, you don’t have to endure it long. Logan grabs something from one of the chilly shelves and shoves it into the microwave to warm up. You aren’t sure what it is exactly, but it smells good. _**(**_ Or maybe it doesn’t and you’re just hungry. _**)**_ He stops the timer before it goes off and pulls the now-steaming box from the microwave. Once he’s gathered it, a fork, a napkin, and a plate, you’re both heading back to the bed. 

_**“**_ You first. _**”**_ he says, setting you down next to him. You watch as he forks out the box’s contents onto the plate, very aware of how your mouth is watering. He places the plate in front of you. _**“**_ Have your fill. _**”**_ You look over the food. It looks like some stuff you’ve seen before. There are veggies you recognize, and long, thin bits––noodles _ **!**_ They’re noodles––and some pieces of beef. You lean over the plate’s edge and pull one of the noodles towards you. 

_**“**_ Thanks. Thank you, uh––Logan, _**”**_ you say, then you start chowing down on your chosen noodle. Logan grunts in response and leans over to grab a book from the nightstand. Much to your relief, he doesn’t seem too interested in watching you eat. You eat about a third of the noodle, and chew through a piece of bell pepper and some of the beef, then you wipe your hands off on the napkin. _**“**_ All yours. _**”**_

_**“**_ Sure _ **?**_ _**”**_ You nod and back up from the plate, letting him take it. He pulls the plate up onto his lap and finishes it off, still reading his book. It should make sense, given how _big_ humans are, but it still baffles you that he’s able to eat everything on the plate. That much food would have lasted you at _least_ two weeks, yet humans eat like that multiple times a _day_.

Once Logan finishes the plate, he sets his book aside and heads into the kitchen to clean up. In his absence, you climb your way up onto the pillow you’d commandeered earlier and settle yourself in the little dip in the center. From your spot, you can still see the window, and the heavy drops of water splattering across the glass. No, it does not look like that’s going to be stopping any time soon. 

_**“**_ Alright, bub. _**”**_ Logan’s voice draws your attention back to him, your head whipping around to face him. _**“**_ You need anything else _ **?**_ Water _ **?**_ Bathroom break _ **?**_ _**”**_ You shake your head. You’re okay for now. _**“**_ ‘Kay. Then I’m going to sleep. You good right there, or you want me to make your your own little bed _ **?**_ _**”**_

_**“**_ This, uh––this is fine. I’m okay here. _**”**_ Though the thought of sleeping near a human is nerve-wracking, Logan’s body heat is a resource you can use. You _pray_ he is not a restless sleeper. His only response is a grunt, then he pulls the comforter and slides under it, his back to you. He flicks the lamp off, letting the room fall into darkness. You can’t see much of anything while your eyes are adjusting, but you can hear Logan’s breathing enough to know where he is. Carefully, quietly, you scoot a little closer, and nestle yourself into the pillowcase. 

Today has been . . . a **shitshow**. Now that you’re settling down, you become aware of your aches and bruises from your earlier tumble in the wind. But you’re still alive _**(**_ for now _**)**_. Logan seems like your best bet at getting home. So, while you don’t entirely trust him, you decide, at least for the time being, to put your faith in him, and hope that he will keep his promise once the rains let up. 

In the meantime, you decide it’s probably best to get some shut-eye yourself. 


	3. Theft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [2018 g/t prompt list](http://tiny-rook.tumblr.com/post/178463272795/this-prompt-list-is-brought-to-you-by-lilegite) #3: theft
> 
> frank castle gets a rude awakening, and finds out just who the hell has been stealing his stuff.
> 
> some fearplay and strong language

The human looks… pretty beaten up. He always looks beaten up, in all honesty. It seems like he comes back from whatever he does every day with new cuts and bruises. It’s like he never heals, or he never gives himself the _opportunity_ to heal. You don’t know **what** he does, exactly _**(**_ and you’re definitely not about to go ask _**)**_ , but you can assume that it’s dangerous. The injuries tell you as much, and the plethora of weapons the human possesses tell you more. Your knowledge on humans is limited, but you’ve seen a few movies and tv shows. All this stuff he has looks like it’s enough to supply a small army of humans. But it’s just him. It’s a one-human army. 

In addition to his weaponry, the human also has this safe house–– _your_ home––strung up with tripwires and traps and alarms of all sorts. You’ve explored before; you’ve seen what they’re attached to. It would not be pleasant if any of them were to be set off. Luckily, he knows how to avoid them, and you do too. You don’t know if you’re even big enough to trip one, but you’re also not willing to try. Some things you can live without knowing. 

One of the benefits of living with a wildly-militant bean, though, is the massive amounts of gunpowder and other flammable materials available to you. It comes in handy, having stuff like this. You can start little fires to cook or heat food, and, with winter approaching, you’re certain you’ll be able to keep yourself warm in even the chilliest corners of the house. Besides, the human won’t miss a couple bullets or a few scoops of powder. 

That’s what you think, anyways. But then you see a change in his behavior. After all the painstaking effort you’ve gone through before to get the bullets, you watch nervously from one of your many hides as he packs up the boxes of stuff _you_ need into a large duffel bag and moves them. It’s all you can do to keep up with him while remaining hidden as he walks through the compound, but you have to see where he intends to _put_ your fire starters. Much to your inconvenience and horror, it seems he’s deemed the best place to put the bag on a shelf over his bed. Not only is it high up and isolated _**(**_ difficult to reach _**)**_ , but it’s _over his bed_. 

God dammit. Why is the world so against borrowers _ **?**_

It takes you a couple of days to formulate a plan to get up to the much-needed heat resources. In the meantime, any bullets and gunpowder left lying around in easier-to-access areas get borrowed from _**(**_ at least those that aren’t obvious traps _**)**_. You’re determined to survive this winter. _He_ doesn’t need this stuff to stay warm _ **!**_

After day three, you think you have a _decent-ish_ plan. It’s treacherous, dangerous, but it’s the best you’ve got. First, you wait. The human either needs to leave or fall asleep. The latter seems like the most likely option this time around. He’s been inside all day, nursing some nasty wounds he’d come home with yesterday. You caught a few glimpses of the cuts that he’d had to stitch together. This human is like a real **Frankenstein** _**(**_ or is it the _**monster?**_ You haven’t seen the movie in a while _**)**_ with all the sutures he has holding him together. But you can only _imagine_ what the other guy looks like. 

He needs to fall asleep. That is step one. You wait, a little impatient. This human is not much for routine. He’s up late doing _gods-know-what_. _**(**_ Why couldn’t you live with a normal bean with normal heat sources? Like a fire place _ **?**_ _**)**_ But it eventually does happen. Late into the night, you hear the groan and squeak of springs––a telltale sign that the human’s set his weight onto his mattress. It’s almost time _ **!**_ He’s going to bed _ **!**_ You gather your supplies and stuff them in your satchel, and scurry on over, unseen, to a crack in the baseboards beneath his bed. Even in the low light, you can see the dip on its underside where it’s supporting the human’s body. From there, you wait. You need to be sure that he’s asleep before you make your next move. It’s difficult to tell when that is, though. You may just need to wing it. 

You _need_ that gunpowder. 

You wait for what feels like an _eternity_ _**(**_ really only about twenty minutes _**)**_ , then start on your journey. The bed frame isn’t too difficult to climb, nor is the mattress. It’s only once you’re on top, though, that you start to feel queasy. You’ve never been this close to a human bean before. Borrowers **avoid** beans. This is going against everything you’ve ever been taught, everything you’ve learned. You can see him outlined under his covers. He’s so … _**big**_. His head isn’t visible from your position, but you can see his broad shoulders, and you can hear his breathing, slow and rhythmic. 

_Okay._ You can do this. You scurry around the big hill in the sheets that you assume is the human’s feet and come to the wall. Here comes phase two: from your bag, you grab some scraps of tape and fasten them to your gloves and boots. The shelf is up too high for you to throw your hook; you have to climb the wall. It’s a daunting task, but you’ve done similar things before. The tape should remain sticky enough to get you up. 

And it does. And you do. Save for some little scares when the human turned in his sleep, during which you froze and prayed to whoever was listening that he wouldn’t see you, the climb went without a hitch. You pull yourself up onto the shelf, feeling very proud of yourself, but there isn’t much time to celebrate. This isn’t finished yet. Moving quickly and quietly, you make your way to the bag and climb up the tough canvas. The zipper proves to not only be a pain in the ass to open, but it’s also _loud_ , filling you with even more anxiety. You have to pull it slowly, so as not to be too noisy _**(**_ you hope _**)**_. Luckily, you don’t need to open it too far. Just a little crack is plenty for you to get in. Bullets could work, but they’re cumbersome, and would make your return trip _hell_. You’d rather just get at the gunpowder. It’s got to be in here somewhere … 

_Bingo **!**_

Once you’ve collected all you can carry _**(**_ yes, you’re quite proud of the two big bags, holding nearly your weight in powder between them _**)**_ , you secure everything to yourself and waddle towards the edge of the shelf. It’s a long way down. You gulp. Okay. Now you can use your hook. You test the string and the knot, then set the sharp point into the wood and test it again. It should hold. You _hope_ it will hold. You’re halfway through this journey; you can do this _ **!**_

You actually believe that, too, up until you feel a jolt in the string. You look up, eyes wide. There’s just barely enough light for you to see your hook slipping. _No no no no **!**_ You plead silently, begging it to hold for just a little longer, but the hook doesn’t seem to be interested in listening at this point in time. The world moves in slow motion for a second. The hook gives. 

You fall. 

You _land_. 

You land on something both soft and hard, warm, and _moving_ under you. Every muscle in your body freezes. _**No.**_ This is _not_ happening. You did _not_ just land on the human _ **!**_

But you did. Your platform moves under you again with his breathing. _He’s still asleep **!**_ Almost too afraid to move, you tentatively look around, trying to figure out where you are. Much to your horror, it appears you’re on his stomach. And you very much need to get _off_. If he didn’t wake up when you _landed_ on him, then maybe you can climb your way off and make your getaway. Very carefully, you push yourself up to your feet, struggling to keep balance on the uneven, ever-shifting surface. One step … two steps … you’ve got this. 

You do not got this. You’ve got _nothing_ tonight. Every other step has the human moving just a little. He’s starting to mumble. The danger’s growing. You’re almost there, almost to his hip, when you feel him move again. It’s not just a shift this time, though. This time, you feel more of a jolt, and then something heavy claps down on top of you. You **scream** out. You can’t help it. 

That’s when all hell breaks loose. The human flinches hard. It’s his hand that’s fallen over you, which you realize once it _grabs_ you and _throws_ you. You let out another shriek as you sail through the air and hit the wall. The powder bags break some of your collision, but the wind is still knocked out of you when you land back on the mattress. You can barely move between the pain in your body and the jostling around you. 

When the light clicks on, you’re even more disoriented. The movement on the mattress stops, which you assume to mean that the human has spotted you. Now he’s going to kill you. 

_**“**_ The fuck … _**?**_ _**”**_ You flinch at his words. The light is still blinding, and you’re sure one of your bags of gunpowder is busted, but your self-preservation instincts kick in again. You _bolt_ , not really sure which way you’re going, but any direction _away_ from that voice is good. Unfortunately, the human is able to keep up pretty well with a disoriented, injured, weighed-down borrower. He catches your intact powder bag first, which you detach, but then he catches you immediately after. Thick fingers snatch you right up, closing all around you, tight and constricting.   


_**“**_ Let me go _ **!**_ _**”**_ You manage to squeak out. You can feel yourself moving in space, which makes you nauseous. Then the pressure lets off, and you feel yourself falling again. Any scream you can make gets cut off abruptly when you hit cold, hard glass, and you realize where you are. You’re in a _jar **!**_ _**(**_ Actually, it looks more like a cup, but it serves the same purpose. _**)**_ Now that your eyes have adjusted to the light, you see the human standing over you, pulling plastic film from a roll. You shrink back as much as you can when he puts a layer over the cup’s opening, and you curl in on yourself, head covered, when he stabs through it a couple of times with a very large knife. That knife, then, is set into the table next to your glass. From as much as you’re willing to peek at it, it looks like the blade alone is twice your height.   


_**“**_ You the one that’s been taking my stuff _ **?**_ _**”**_ Somehow, his voice sounds even more terrifying through the glass. You don’t say anything. You don’t move. But you do squeak when you feel your prison jolt. You’re thrown back against the curved surface, and struggle to keep some semblance of balance.   


_**“**_ I’m _talkin’_ to you, short-shit. _**”**_ Once everything stops moving, you see his hand wrapped around the glass to your back, and you see his bruised, cut-up face right in front of you, glaring at you. He’s holding your prison now. He could shake you, or crush you inside the glass, or just dump you into his mouth, or–––  


_**“**_ You just gonna ignore me _ **?**_ _**”**_ You open your mouth to speak, but he cuts you off again, holding up your powder bags in his other hand. _**“**_ This yours, hunh _ **?**_ The hell you doin’ stealin’ my gunpowder _ **?**_ Tryin’a set this place on fire _ **? ”**_   


_**“**_ _No **!**_ _**”**_ You shout and settle back against the glass, shaking. _**“**_ I … I need it to, uh––I need it to stay––stay warm … _**!**_ _**”**_ The human’s gaze is hard, like he’s looking right through you. He’s so big, so terrifying …. _**“**_ please, I won’t––– _**”**_   


_**“**_ Shut up. _**”**_ And you do shut up. Your fear is palpable. You can’t even _begin_ to tell what’s going on inside his head. You can guess _**(**_ more like you can’t help _but_ guess _**)**_ , but you really don’t want to.   
After a minute, the human moves again, setting your cup back down on the table. You look up, confused, then back to him. Is he going to let you go _ **?**_ _Please_ have him let you go … 

_**“**_ Got a name, kid _ **?**_ _**”**_   
_Kid **?**_ You take a little offense to that. You’re grown _ **!**_ But you are also way too terrified to correct him right now. 

_**“**_ Let me go––– _**”**_   


_**“**_ Your **name**. Don’t make me ask again. _**”**_   


You swallow your spit nervously. _**“**_ _**[**_ Y/N _**]**_. _**”**_

_**“**_ Okay, _**[**_ Y/N _**]**_ , how long’ve you been in here _ **?**_ _**”**_ He’s watching you, _studying_ you. He leans back in his seat, making himself a bit more comfortable, but it does little to unnerve you. One of his hands is still on the table, looking ready to grab you again at any moment.   


_**“**_ Since, uh––a–about two months ago … _**”**_   


_**“**_ You been stealin’ from me since then _ **?**_ _**”**_   


_**“**_ _**Borrowing**. **”** _ That’s your first time correcting him. You feel sick to your stomach. _**“**_ I don––I don’t _steal_. I just, uh––I just borrow. That’s––I’m a **_borrower_**. I just take what I need … _**”**_   


_**“**_ See, thing is, _**[**_ Y/N _**]**_ , that ain’t really how the world works. _**”**_ He leans forward again, looming over you. Behind your glass, he clasps his hands together, surrounding your cup with his arms. You can’t possibly shrink back any more, try as you might. _**“**_ Just ‘cos you _need_ somethin’ doesn’t mean you can **take** it. Besides, that ain’t exactly what the word _**‘**_ _borrow_ _**’**_ means, ‘cos I’m guessing you haven’t really _returned_ anything, hunh _ **?**_ _**”**_   


You stare up at him in fearful silence. 

_**“**_ **Answer** me. _**”**_ One of his fists slams down on the table near you, making your glass jump and assaulting your ears with a cacophony. You yelp and cover your head, close to tears.   


_**“**_ Yes _ **!**_ I’m sorry **!** I just––– **”** You’re just trying to _survive_. A sob cuts you off before you can say anything more. Fear shakes your whole body, your chest spasming with every breath. It’s a miracle that your heart hasn’t given out yet.   


A few minutes pass, during which you manage to control your crying, but you keep yourself curled up, forehead to your knees and arms covering your head. You try to focus, try to calm down, but it’s not so easy when there’s a scary-as-all-hell human staring down at you. Only when he moves, though, do you look up again. You watch him remove the film from the top of the glass, eyes wide. Is he going to let you go now _ **?**_ He picks up the glass, and you can only look on helplessly as he tips it towards his awaiting hand. It happens too quickly for you to even _attempt_ to hold on, not that you’d have anything to hold on _to_ on such a sheer surface. You tumble and slip and end up on your back, smack in the center of the human’s palm. It’s warm and leathery and _terrifying_. You move quickly to sit up, and he moves in turn, his fingers curling in over you like a horrific cage.   


_**“**_ Alright, small fry, I’ve got a proposition for you, ‘kay _ **?**_ _**”**_ You don’t say anything. You don’t even move, save for the shaking you can’t seem to stifle. _**“**_ You stop takin’ my shit, and I let you stay. Won’t hurt you, won’t rip the walls out to find you, none a’ that. Otherwise, you can hit the curb. _**”**_   


You still say nothing at first. It sounds like a very bad proposition. In your ears, in your head, what he just said was you _starve and freeze to death **inside**_ , or you _starve and freeze to death **outside**_. The hand under you bounces a little bit, jostling you from your thoughts. 

_**“**_ But, uh … _**”**_ you struggle to find your words. It’s hard to think when you’re in a cage that could curl in and squash you at any second. _**“**_ I need f–food … and heat, and––and––I won’t, uh––I don’t have enough supplies to–to survive the winter …. I would _die_ i–in either scenario …. _**”**_

The human seems to be thinking. What about, you have no idea. His expression is unreadable. He bounces you in his hand a couple more times, getting a squeak or two out of you. 

_**“**_ I don’t need a freeloader, _**”**_ he says finally. You stop breathing. He’s going to kick you out _ **!**_ He’s going to throw you away like some garbage _ **!**_ He’s––– _**“**_ You’re not some _pet_. I can help you out, give you what you need, but we’re gonna have to figure out somethin’ you can do in return. _**”**_ _He’s not kicking you out … **!**_ You’re giving yourself emotional whiplash here. The human stands, forcing you to lean against one of his fingers to maintain some balance.   


_**“**_ I … don’t know what I could do … _**”**_   


_**“**_ ‘s why I said we’re gonna _figure somethin’ out_. _**”**_ He walks as he speaks, and you sway lightly with every step. It’s dizzying, and a bit nauseating when you feel yourself being lowered. His fingers uncurl near the floor, like he’s letting you off, and you quickly accept the opportunity. Before you can scurry away, though, that hand blocks your path again, forcing you to halt.   


_**“**_ _Hey_. _**”**_ His voice is rough, booming behind you. Tentatively you turn around, looking up at the human with wide eyes. His other hand moves towards you, to which you back up until you hit his palm, but he doesn’t move to grab you again. No, instead he drops the packet of powder that survived all the commotion in front of you. _**“**_ I’m goin’ back to bed. You keep this, stay warm tonight. When I wake up, though, I’m gonna call for you, and you’re gonna come out, alright _ **?**_ You don’t, and these walls are comin’ down, and I’m gonna find you. Capisce _ **? ”**_   


You grab that bag of powder and hold it close, not daring to take your eyes off of him. Quickly you nod, finding that you don’t have much choice. It’s another lose-lose scenario for you. But … he’s letting you go. For now. He didn’t hurt you, and he let you go. Both of his hands pull away from you, granting you your room to run away. You don’t move just yet, though.

 _ **“**_ Y––uh––your … name _ **? ”**_ You speak as though it might be forbidden information, too much to ask for. It seems to throw him off a little.   


_**“**_ Uh … Frank, _**”**_ he says, looking down at himself, then back at you. He stands, and you snap back into flight mode, now making your getaway, under the bed and into the crack in the baseboard. You have your powder now. You can stay warm tonight. But tomorrow … you’re going to have to talk to Frank again. The very thought fills you with dread. 


	4. Movie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [2018 g/t prompt list](http://tiny-rook.tumblr.com/post/178463272795/this-prompt-list-is-brought-to-you-by-lilegite) #4: movie
> 
> horror movies can be kinda scary––especially to little borrowers that have never seen a movie before.
> 
> no warnings in this chapter

The screen flashes red, blood and gore spraying all over, even onto the camera lens, and a very generic scream assaults the ears. Bruce can only raise a brow, unimpressed by the display as he shoves a few pieces of popcorn into his mouth. One piece falls into his lap, but it doesn’t come from his hand. He looks down, then glances at his shoulder as best he can, frowning. 

_**“**_ _**[**_ Y/N _**]?**_ _**”**_ His voice is soft, inquisitive. Free fingers delicately pluck up the half-eaten kernel and bring it back up to his shoulder, where his little companion sits. Now that they have his attention, he can feel them shaking. To Bruce, the film’s graphics look very cheesy, outdated, more comical than actually scary. To a borrower like _**[**_ Y/N _**]**_ , though, never having seen a movie at all, let alone a _slasher flick_ , he imagines the copious amounts of fake blood and flying viscera look pretty . . . **disturbing**. Now he’s thinking they _probably_ should have gone with another choice of film . . ..

 _ **“**_ Hey. Are you okay _ **?**_ We don’t have to watch this if you don’t want to. We can–––– _**”**_

_**“**_ I’m fine. _**”**_ They answer quickly, cutting him off before he can finish. The little being snatches the bit of kernel from Bruce’s fingers and the adamant crunching of chewed popcorn reaches his ear. 

Needless to say, Bruce isn’t very convinced. He can hear the fear in their voice, masked under that faux confidence. He’d know it well; it’s the same tone they’d used when he first discovered them, caught them stealing _**(**_ _**“**_ _borrowing_ _**”**_ _**)**_ bits of wire from the bat computer. That was over a month ago. He’d heard it since then, too, any time the borrower faced anything new and intimidating. They didn’t like to show _fear_. 

_**“**_ You sure _ **?**_ _ **”**_

_**“**_ _Shh._ I’m watching. _**”**_

From his peripherals, Bruce can see _**[**_ Y/N _**]**_ hiding a little bit behind their popcorn. They’re trying so hard to stifle their fear, but it’s not working very well. Bruce can’t help but give a soft chuckle. One-by-one, he pops his fingers into his mouth to lick off the butter. 

_**“**_ Come on. _**”**_ After wiping his hands off on a napkin, Bruce raises one to the borrower and gently curls his fingers around their little form. They squeak in minor protest, but both of them are used to this motion by now. Bruce knows how to handle them, and they know how to handle him. He feels them adjust and settle in his palm as he carries them down to his chest. A quick flick of the remote pauses the movie, giving them a bit of silence to have a quick word. 

_**“**_ Hey _ **!**_ I’m––I was watching that–– _ **!**_ _**”**_ They glare up at Bruce indignantly. 

_**“**_ I know. We can keep watching it in a minute. I’m just checking to make sure you’re okay. You looked a little shaken. Maybe because you were _shaking_. _**”**_ He rubs a thumb lightly up the borrower’s back, trying to ease them. 

_**“**_ I’m **fine**. I _wasn’t_ shaking. _**”**_ Ah, ever defensive. It’s admirable, how dedicated they are to this _I’m tough **!**_ act. Not that they weren’t tough; Bruce could never think that. A borrower in a human’s world _**(**_ hell, even in their _own_ world _**)**_ _has_ to be tough to survive. He does find himself relating to them, though––at least in how they deal with fear. He’s really not one to lecture on this subject matter. 

_**“**_ Alright, alright, _**”**_ he concedes, _**“**_ must’ve been my imagination. Do you want back up on my shoulder, or are you okay there _ **?**_ _**”**_

They fall quiet. Bruce knows they’re considering their options. It’s a way, he’s found, to subtly offer help when he knows _**[**_ Y/N _**]**_ won’t ask for it. 

_**“**_ Here is fine, _**”**_ they say eventually, as Bruce guessed they would. _**“**_ It’s closer to the popcorn anyway. _**”**_ Ah, of course, the justification. He doesn’t say anything to the contrary; no need to put the little one on the defensive any more. He makes no effort to stop his smile, though, as he watches them situate themselves in his hand. Those tiny arms wrapping around his thumb fills his heart with warmth. Once all is settled, Bruce plays the movie again, and the cheesy gorefest continues. 

Not much of the film gets a reaction out of him. Throughout its remaining duration, most of his attention is more on the little borrower. With them in his hand, their shaking is much more obvious, as is their ducking when they can’t bear to witness the brutality. His fingers curl slightly each time they do. It never lasts long; usually they’re popping up again after a few seconds, and his hold relaxes accordingly. 

It seems like the movie goes on _forever_ before some sort of cheap, boring resolution flashes by and the credits roll. Bruce stifles a yawn with his free hand, then looks down to _**[**_ Y/N _**]**_. 

_**“**_ I’ll pick something better for us to watch next time, _**”**_ he says. He brings his hand to his shoulder, letting _**[**_ Y/N _**]**_ climb on, then grabs the emptied popcorn bowl and stands up. This is another thing the both of them have gotten good at: Bruce moving carefully with his passenger, and _**[**_ Y/N _**]**_ holding on like a champ. Humans aren’t the smoothest of rides, but the two of them make it work. He heads towards the kitchen to rinse the bowl out and deposit it into the dish washer, then makes way for the stairs. The house is quiet and dark, everyone else either out or sleeping. The latter sounded pretty appealing to bruce, who stifles another yawn. 

_**“**_ Whose room tonight _ **?**_ Damian’s _ **? ”**_ Bruce notices that the borrower hasn’t said much since the movie ended. They aren’t shaking, but he can tell that something is off. They’re probably still spooked. 

_**“**_ Damian . . . is probably asleep by now . . . _**”**_ they say softly. 

_**“**_ Probably. He has school in the morning. _**”**_ He knows where this is going. They’re working up a justification that _isn’t_ just them being scared from the movie. He waits patiently, letting them reason it out. 

_**“**_ So it’s probably better . . . I sleep in yours tonight. If that’s okay. _**”**_ There it is. Bruce smiles. 

_**“**_ Of course. _**”**_ He heads up the stairs, navigating the familiar corridors easily in the darkness. Each step is silent, as not to wake anyone else that may be asleep. A soft noise reaches his ear, what he assumes to be a tiny yawn to match the tiny being. Cute. 

Within every occupied bedroom, and in some unoccupied rooms, _**[**_ Y/N _**]**_ has a little space of their own to sleep and sit in safely. When they do choose to spend it with one of the Wayne Manor residents, they usually choose Damian’s room, but it isn’t unusual for Bruce to wake up to the borrower snoozing in their them-sized bed in his room. It’s a heartwarming sight, seeing a little puff of hair sticking out from under the bundle of blankets. 

After teeth are brushed, clothes are changed, and both parties are ready for bed, Bruce carries the borrower to their space and sets his hand down. He notices the hesitation in their movements before they climb off. 

_**“**_ Everything alright _ **?**_ _**”**_ One brow lifts higher than the other. 

_**“**_ Everything––everything’s fine. _**”**_ It’s another quick answer. _**[**_ Y/N _**]**_ scurries onto their bed, then looks up at Bruce with that brave face. _**“**_ Thank you for the movie. And the popcorn. _**”**_

Lips curve in a soft smile. Bruce leans in and gently tugs the covers over the borrower’s little form. _**“**_ No need to thank me. If you need anything, I’m right here, alright _ **?**_ Don’t worry about waking me up. Goodnight, _**[**_ Y/N _**]**_. _**”**_ He has the thought to ask if they’d like to sleep in his bed, but he knows they’d reject any offer anyways. He won’t push. With one final yawn, Bruce flicks the bedside lamp off and climbs into his own bed, getting himself settled comfortably under the covers, ready to face the night. 

He’s _almost_ asleep when he feels the soft pressure––light footsteps, more like––padding up his arm, over the back of his hand, and onto his chest. There’s a hint of smugness in his thoughts, but he doesn’t move or say anything. _**(**_ He _knew_ it. _**)**_ He waits until he feels the borrower lie down and make themselves comfortable, then he rests his hand lightly overtop them, giving them a little tent of warmth. This isn’t a problem; Bruce has long-since learned how to keep himself still in his sleep. _**[**_ Y/N _**]**_ will be safe here. They will always be safe with him. 


	5. Boop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [2018 g/t prompt list](http://tiny-rook.tumblr.com/post/178463272795/this-prompt-list-is-brought-to-you-by-lilegite) #5: boop
> 
> with his heightened senses, matt murdock has grown increasingly aware of the scurrying in his walls and ceilings. funny thing is, though: it doesn't sound like any sort of rodent––not one he's ever heard before. 
> 
> mild language warning

Matt started hearing the strange sounds a couple of days ago. He heard little rustling, pitter-pattering noises in the walls and ceilings of his apartment. At first, he’d thought it was just a mouse. That was the logical explanation. What else could it possibly be _ **?**_ But he quickly realized the error in that assumption when he listened a bit closer: the scurrying doesn’t sound quite right to be a mouse, nor does the quiet muttering of _words_. Last time Matt checked, mice do not speak. It wouldn’t be the strangest thing to find, admittedly, but it still seems unlikely. 

Whatever it is, though, it clearly **can** speak, which is troubling. It could compromise his security, his _identity_. Matt needs to _catch_ it before it can expose him as Daredevil––assuming _**(**_ or perhaps _hoping_ _**)**_ that it hasn’t already. 

Given its ability to speak, Matt assumes it has intelligence. It won’t fall for any sort of lure trap. Or maybe it would; maybe he’s giving it more credit than it deserves. Still, his gut tells him that it’s a bit smarter than that, especially given the things he’s heard it muttering. What kind of a rodent says something like _**“**_ By the Gods, I’ll be sent to a top-secret facility where they’ll dissect me and take my DNA and they’ll euthanize me long before I can hope for any sort of liberation _**”**_ _ **?**_ It has a vocabulary and problem-solving skills that he wouldn’t expect from a simple creature. 

He’s also heard it whisper a name multiple times. Could that be _its_ name _ **?**_ _**(**_ should he still consider it an _it **?**_ _**)**_

_**“**_ _**[**_ Y/N _**]?**_ _**”**_ he speaks plainly, lying face-up across his couch. The faint rustling, loud and clear in his ears, stops somewhere above him. Through the ceiling material, Matt can’t get a clear shape of what the creature is; he hasn’t been able to discern anything yet beyond the fact that they are _small_. And now they’ve stopped moving. _**“**_ Is that . . . your name _ **?**_ _**”**_ It feels foolish, speaking to a critter in the ceiling, but here he is. 

_**“**_ Where did you hear that _ **?**_ _**”**_ The little thing is shouting, voice muffled through the ceiling. 

_**“**_ From you. _**”**_

_**“**_ How have you been––how _long_ have you been listening _ **? ”**_

_**“**_ I first heard you about a week ago. What are you _ **?**_ Why are you here _ **?**_ _**”**_ The creature falls silent––in that they stop talking, but Matt can still hear their movements quite clearly––and starts moving quickly along the ceiling. If he focuses hard enough, he can hear their heartbeat, small and rapid, as they scurry along. They move to the wall, and start to make their way down, looking like they’re heading for the floor. Matt sits up, a little puzzled, head angled in the creature’s direction. They stop once they reach the floor level, but the drywall still obscures their shape. 

_**“**_ How could he have heard me _ **?**_ What kind of _super hearing_ does this human have _ **?**_ _**”**_ Clearly they’re talking to themselves. They must not know that Matt can, in fact, still hear them. He shifts towards the edge of the couch, a little closer. _**“**_ Shit shit _shit_ ––what am I gonna do _ **?**_ I _just_ moved; there are cats upstairs, bugs downstairs–– _ **dammit**_. _**”**_

_**“**_ You, uh . . . uhm . . . _**”**_ Matt clears his throat. It doesn’t sound like they have any nefarious, secret-identity-exposing intentions. It sounds more like they’re just trying to _live_. _**“**_ You can come out. I’m . . . not going to hurt you. _**”**_ Their little voice stops. They go silent again, save for minute shuffling. He thinks they’re going to run away at any moment, but then they do finally speak up again. 

_**“**_ That’s what _every_ bean says. _**”**_ _Bean **?**_ _**“**_ _**‘**_ _Oh, i’m not gonna hurt you._ _**’**_ and then you come out like an **idiot** and suddenly you’re trapped in a–a–a box-thing _ **!**_ And being carried off to Gods-know-where _ **!**_ _**”**_

_**“**_ Do you . . . speak from personal experience _ **?**_ _**”**_ If so, this is actually quite concerning. Despite the being’s comic attempts to deepen their voice and sound like a human, their story resembles something from a nightmare. Matt frowns. He lowers himself quietly to the floor, onto his knees. 

_**“**_ Uh . . . no. It’s––it’s none of your business _ **!**_ _**”**_

Interestingly enough, Matt catches a flutter in the creature’s heartbeat, not unlike what he’d hear in a lying human. His brows pinch together. 

_**“**_ Look, I . . . don’t know how to, uh, _reassure_ you. I can––I could probably _help_ you, if you’d come out . . .. _**”**_

More movement. Matt tilts his head and focuses, trying to hear it better, gauge what the little being is doing. Little footsteps reach his ears. It sounds like the being is retreating, much to his disappointment and slight annoyance. They’re moving further away from him. He has half a mind to chase, but it wouldn’t do him any good––not with them in the wall like that. Not to mention, he would probably scare the hell out of them, which isn’t really something he cares to do. They seem to be under enough stress as is.

Matt is ready to let the being be, already standing up, when he hears the squeak of a screw being turned in drywall. He freezes, senses mapping the room, finding the screw in question in a power outlet cover––a _loose_ cover, apparently. The cover is pushed aside, and a tiny–– _impossibly_ tiny–– . . . _**person**_ slips out into the open. Radar senses are all over the little figure, picking up every detail they can get. The being is approximately three inches tall; they have four limbs, each ending in five digits; they’re wearing _clothes_ ; they–––they really are a _very_ _small_ _human_ . . .. 

He isn’t sure what he was expecting, exactly, but this isn’t it. A talking rat actually seems a bit more likely . . .. 

_**“**_ You’re . . .–––woah. Hey. _**”**_ The little person’s heart rate shoots right up as he takes a step, prompting Matt to freeze again. He holds up his hands in a sort of surrender. _**“**_ It’s okay. Like I said: I’m not going to hurt you. _**”**_

_**“**_ You aren’t . . . looking at me. _**”**_

_**“**_ I’m––yeah, I–––that wouldn’t do me much good. _**”**_

They don’t press further, seeming to understand. A soft patter of little feet tells Matt that they’ve moved a bit closer, though they remain well outside of his reach. That’s fine. He doesn’t intend to grab them. 

_**“**_ You have _really_ good hearing, _**”**_ they comment. Their heart rate is going down, slowly but surely. _**“**_ What is your name _ **?**_ _**”**_

“ Uh . . . Matt. It’s––I’m Matt. Is _**[**_ Y/N _**]**_ your name _ **?**_ _**”**_

They nod––an action he _does_ notice––but they quickly follow up, sounding a little embarrassed, as if unused to speaking to a blind man. _**“**_ Y–yeah. That’s me. You heard right. _**”**_

Matt smiles a little, more to himself than to his company. _**“**_ Well, _**[**_ Y/N _**]**_ , do you mind if I sit down _ **? ”**_

_**“**_ Go for it . . .. _ **”**_ It sounds more like a question, indicative of _**[**_ Y/N _**]**_ ’s confusion. It _is_ a weird question to ask. Who asks for permission to sit in his own house _ **?**_ But Matt is more thinking that he doesn’t want to give the little one reason to bolt. And they don’t. They stay right where they are _**(**_ heart rate rising _**)**_ as he lowers himself back onto the couch. 

An interesting conversation ensues. Matt has plenty of questions, and, as it turns out, the little one–– _borrower_ , as they call themselves––has some of their own. Matt learns that, while _**[**_ Y/N _**]**_ has seen him return at night in his uniform, they don’t really know who he’s supposed to be or what it’s for. It’s probably best they remain in the dark. As they talk, too, Matt notices that the borrower comes a little closer every few minutes. They seem to be just as curious about him as he is about them. He guesses he’s the first blind _**"**_ bean _**”**_ they’ve encountered. He also seems to be the first one that hasn’t actively tried to catch and/or _kill_ them. It’s a little upsetting to think about. 

_**“**_ Can I . . . feel you _ **?**_ _**”**_ It’s another odd question. Even for him, it’s a strange one, but he’s still questioning _himself_ on whether or not this encounter is real. The borrower stiffens, immediately nervous once more. Matt feels the awkward tension rise up. 

_**“**_ Uh . . . what do you, uh–– _why **?**_ _**”**_

Right. That’s answer enough. Matt leans back a little, as if to give _**[**_ Y/N _**]**_ some more space. Some guilt creeps into his conscience for even asking, considering how the borrower’s reacted to him thus far. While they’ve been amicable, he’s not oblivious to their constant, underlying fear. 

_**“**_ Never mind. Sorry––forget I asked. _**”**_ _Stupid._ He mentally berates himself, but another sound reaches his ears, cutting him off. He frowns, head jerking sharply towards the door _**(**_ which startles the borrower; he’ll have to remember to keep his movements slower and smoother in the future _**)**_. 

_**“**_ Someone’s coming. You should probably––– _**”**_

But they’re already gone. Matt hears the rapid pitter-patter of little feet on the floors, and the following scrape against the wall as the outlet cover is moved aside. For a brief moment, his focus remains on _**[**_ Y/N _**]**_ as they move through the walls, but the knock at the door pulls him back to the situation at hand. It seems that Foggy is here. 

* * *

_**“**_ _Matt._ _**”**_ The voice reaches him, but Matt doesn’t wake just yet. 

Foggy came over, and the two of them had conversation over a couple of beers. Some of it was business, and some of it wasn’t––a good mix of the two, really. Matt lost focus on _**[**_ Y/N _**]**_ shortly after they vanished into the wall, and hadn’t found them again after Foggy eventually left. Figuring they’d gone to sleep, as the hour was pretty late, he opted to do the same, and retired to his room for the night. 

Then he started to experience things. His nightmares are always so _intimate_ , an assault on the senses. So many voices _**(**_ _screams_ _**)**_ , sensations, so much **chaos** –––

 _ **“**_ _**Matt!**_ _**”**_ There’s a _tap_ to his nose that finally wakes the man. He breathes out sharply, wrenched from his bad dream. Sightless eyes blink in the darkness, staring up at the ceiling as he works to ground himself and get his breathing under control. It takes a couple of seconds for him to realize he isn’t alone. There’s a buzzing heartbeat within a small, warm little body just to the left of his head. 

_**“**_ _**[**_ Y/N _**]?**_ _**”**_ While he isn’t super familiar with their specific heartbeat yet, Matt does recognize the little squeaks and yelps they make when startled. Those are unmistakable. He pushes against his mattress and moves himself a few inches to the right, giving himself and the borrower some room so he can safely sit himself up, elbow propped under his body for support. The way the mattress deforms under him jostles _**[**_ Y/N _**]**_ , but they maintain their footing.

 _ **“**_ Are you okay _ **?**_ _**”**_

_**“**_ I–I think I, uh––I should be asking _you_ that _ **!**_ You were _yelling_ in your sleep _ **!**_ **”** There’s a quiver in their voice. They’re nervous–– _terrified_ , even. They’re _much_ closer to Matt now than they were willing to get before. Hell––they _touched_ him, flicked him hard enough on the nose to wake him up. 

_**“**_ I . . . was I _ **?**_ Sorry . . . _**”**_ He must have woken them up, then. Matt sighs and drags a hand down his face, still exhausted, but awake for the time being. He can feel the borrower staring at him. _**“**_ I’m okay. Just a bad dream. _**”**_

They don’t seem too convinced, but they take a step back regardless, likely ready to make their runaway. That doesn’t happen, though; when Matt pushes himself up further, their surprised yelp hits the air, and he feels a little weight fall onto the back of his hand. Immediately he freezes, not daring to move, lest he frighten _**[**_ Y/N _**]**_ further. It seems they have a similar idea, though perhaps their freeze is more _fear-induced_ than anything else. 

_**“**_ . . . You can get up. I won’t move. _**”**_ And they do get up after another moment, scurrying off of his hand _**(**_ with a _little_ assistance _**)**_. He offers a soft apology. Much to his surprise, though, they don’t go very far. Already that hummingbird heartbeat is starting to slow. Once more, they’re silent, staring at him. Things are a bit awkward. Matt clears his throat. 

_**“**_ I’m, uh––I’m gonna go get some water from the kitchen. Do you . . . want anything _ **?**_ Or would you like to join me . . . _ **?**_ _**”**_

They don’t answer. Matt takes it as a no. He resumes getting up, off the bed, much slower this time. 

_**“**_ I could . . . use a snack, _**”**_ comes the tiny voice, making Matt pause again. He glances back over his shoulder, senses picking up on _**[**_ Y/N _**]**_ ’s minuscule form. Being their size, he imagines they must need to eat fairly often. 

_**“**_ Want me to carry you _ **?**_ _**”**_ It’s just a suggestion. It’d be faster, more efficient, but Matt won’t push. 

_**“**_ I can manage. _**”**_ Fair enough. The borrower approaches the bed’s edge and climbs down the sheets and covers, down to the floor, where Matt can hear their footsteps. He starts walking towards the kitchen, pace slowed a little, but still quick enough to keep well ahead of _**[**_ Y/N _**]**_. Though the chances of him _stepping_ on them are slim to none, it’s still a precaution he takes. 

Now, he’s sure he’s got some cereal in one of the cabinets that he thinks his new companion would like . . . 


	6. Catch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [2018 g/t prompt list](http://tiny-rook.tumblr.com/post/178463272795/this-prompt-list-is-brought-to-you-by-lilegite) #6: catch
> 
> even borrowers get saved by superman sometimes
> 
> mild language warnings

There’s a _scream_. Clark jolts up in his seat, knee banging against the underside of his desk hard. He mutters a few _almost_ -curses under his breath, picking up the _**(**_ thankfully already empty _**)**_ mug he’d knocked over and collecting anything else he’d disturbed. Had he imagined that scream _ **?**_ It sounded so real, so–––

 _ **“**_ You alright over there, Smallville _ **?**_ _**”**_ He glances up to see a familiar face peering over into his cubicle, her features twisted in mild confusion. Apparently his little jolt disturbed more than just his desk items . . .. 

_**“**_ Uh. Yeah. Yeah, sorry, Lois, I––– _**”**_ Clark pushes his glasses further up onto his face and stands, dusting himself off. _**“**_ Y’know when you’re, uh, about to fall asleep and you suddenly feel like you’re falling _ **?**_ Apparently I’m more tired than I thought, so––– _**”**_

_**“** No no no no––– **!** **”**_ There’s the voice again––the same voice that just screamed. It sounds . . . _distressed_. Clark hones in on it a moment, forgetting that he was in the middle of a sentence until Lois pulls him back. 

_**“**_ Hell– _ooo_ , Clark _ **?**_ _**”**_ Now her confusion isn’t so mild. Clark’s attention snaps back to Lois, his eyes wide. 

_**“**_ Hunh _ **?**_ Sorry. I think I just––I think I need some more coffee. I’m fine. Sorry to bother you. _**”**_ Now he knows where the voice is coming from. He can hear it still. It’s strange–– **bizarre** , even. It’s so quiet; logic dictates it would be far away with that kind of volume, but it _isn’t_. Lois doesn’t seem too satisfied with his explanation, but Clark excuses himself nonetheless. Thankfully, the voice seems to be coming from the break room, which gives his would-be coffee break some merit.

 _What could it possibly be **?**_ As he approaches the break room, Clark focuses his senses, and utilizes his x-ray vision, peering through the walls. Nothing seems too out of the ordinary–––

 _What the **hell?**_ Dangling from an ajar cabinet door, there seems to be a tiny . . . _person_. There’s no way that’s right. His mind must be playing games, or he’s just seeing things, mistaking them for little people, or––or–––

No, that yelp sounds _very real_. Clark walks a bit faster, his anxiety rising. The little being obviously needs help. They look like they’re about to _fall **!**_ He sucks in a breath, forcing himself not to move _too_ quickly, as not to draw attention, all while trying to get to the room to help in time. He damn-near dents the doorknob as he twists it, pushing the door open. Clear as day, nothing but air to block his view, he sees them: a very tiny, yet utterly unmistakable _person_. And they see him. Now that all his focus is on them, he can hear a little heartbeat within their chest, buzzing away. Never before has he seen anything like this; it actually has him a little taken aback, confused. 

Once more, though, Clark is yanked back to reality. The being’s grip––what’s _left_ of it––slips from the wood. Their sharp, terrified yelp hits his ears, and Clark rushes forward, hands outstretched. He closes the space between them in the blink of an eye, catching them after only a couple-inches fall. The weight now in his hands is so small, so light, that he isn’t sure he would notice it were he not looking right at the little being. 

_**“**_ Are you okay . . . _ **?**_ _**”**_ He keeps his voice low, and his hands steady. What he isn’t prepared, for, though, is the being’s shrill scream of terror once they realize that they’ve been caught. They try to scoot away from him, forcing Clark to close his hands around them, trapping them in the darkness between his palms. 

_**“**_ Woah––hey _ **!**_ _**”**_ Tiny fists and feet bang against his skin harmlessly. Clark _feels bad_ , but he doesn’t want them to fall again and hurt themselves, so he keeps his hands closed. _**“**_ _Please_ , I’m not going to hurt you. I just––– _**”**_

There are footsteps approaching. Clark glances over his shoulder, unsure of what to do. It’s _Lois_. Notoriously tenacious Lois Lane is headed his way–– _their_ way. 

_**“**_ Someone’s coming, _**”**_ he whispers, looking around for somewhere to put the little being. Eyes settle on his breast pocket. They’re small enough to fit in there unnoticed, provided they don’t squirm so much. _**“**_ I need you to stay still and _trust_ me. _**”**_ He curls the fingers of his lower hand around them, much to their protest, and lifts them up to his pocket. They don’t make things easy for him, but he manages to stuff them in just as the doorknob turns. 

_**“**_ Clark _ **?**_ _**”**_ Her inquisitive tone makes the man freeze. The little one seems to freeze too, going dead still in his pocket _**(**_ save for their shaking _**)**_. Their poor heart is just _zooming_. After a tense moment, Clark turns around, forcing a sheepish smile. 

_**“**_ Lois _ **!**_ Hi. Hey, uh––– _**”**_ oh boy, he needs an excuse ASAP. He glances around discretely, looking for something, _anything_. _**“**_ Coffee tasted funny. I was going to make a new pot. _**”**_

_Bad excuse_. 

One dark brow raises on Lois’ face. _**“**_ You’re a terrible liar, Clark. _**”**_

She’s right. He is. The little being tenses further in his pocket as he searches desperately for a way out. 

_**“**_ I . . .––I’m sorry, Lois. _**”**_ He bows his head a little, unhappy that he even _has_ to lie about what’s really going on _**(**_ though it’s not the only thing he’s keeping from her _**)**_. “ I’m just . . . I’m not feeling well. I think I’m gonna head home, finish my work there. _**”**_

It’s better, but still not great. Lois stares at him for a moment longer, leaving Clark to believe that she’s going to call bullshit again, but she doesn’t. _**(**_ _Thank God._ _**)**_ She sighs, clearly unhappy, clearly not _done_ with whatever this is.

 _ **“**_ Go on. I’ll talk to you later, Smallville. _**”**_ She steps aside, arms crossed over her chest. 

_**“**_ Er––yeah. Right. Of course. _**”**_ Swallowing his guilt, he puts on a slightly brighter smile, truly appreciative of Lois’ cooperation. He hurries past her, and calls back over his shoulder, _**“**_ I’ll have the article ready tonight _ **!**_ _**”**_

* * *

Perry wasn’t too pleased with Clark’s sudden speeding out, but it’s not exactly anything _new_. Clark has always had a habit of disappearing unexpectedly. But now that he’s out of the building, onto the Metropolis sidewalks, Clark finds himself at a loss for what to do. The little one still hides within his breast pocket, their shaking stopped for now, but their body still very tense. He already feels bad enough for scaring them; _kidnapping_ them doesn’t seem like it would smooth things out. 

Pace brisk, Clark walks along the sidewalk, taking careful measures to keep his gait as smooth as possible for his passenger. He ducks into a nearby alleyway, out of sight of anyone that might be passing by. 

_**“**_ Would you like to come out now _ **?**_ _**”**_

Their tiny body curls in now that his attention is back on them. Clark sighs softly. He’s prepared to wait, let them move at their own pace. He can only _imagine_ what they’re feeling right now. 

Luckily, though, they don’t make him wait long. They shift and squirm in his pocket, eventually pulling themselves up, their head and tiny, _tiny_ hands poking out over the fabric rim. Clark listens to their heart rate spike when they look down at what, to them, amounts to a _very high_ fall, and then back up to his comparatively massive face. It’s a very stark reminder that they are, in fact, on Clark’s person. He smiles, hoping to ease some of their fear, but the success is questionable. 

_**“**_ Sorry, I . . . don’t mean to scare you. Didn’t mean to, er, _take_ you, either, but you didn’t seem like you really wanted to be seen . . .. _**”**_ How does one apologize for kidnapping _ **?**_ Clark glances away, awkward. _**“**_ Anyways, uh, hi, I’m Clark. Do you have a name _ **?**_ _**”**_

They stare up at him, silent. 

_**“**_ . . . okay. Well, I can take you somewhere, if you’d like . . .. Anywhere, really. _**”**_

Once more, they look down at the ground far below. Clark brings his hand up to the pocket, offering to let them out, but they duck back down with a startled yelp. He feels a guilty pang in his heart. 

_**“**_ Hey, I _promise_ I’m not going to hurt you. _**”**_ But his hand falls away nonetheless, and they pop back up again, slowly but surely. 

_**“**_ You . . . hid me from the other bean . . . _**”**_ Their voice is so soft, so _tiny_ _**(**_ fitting for them _**)**_. Clark almost thinks that anyone _without_ super hearing wouldn’t be able to hear them. 

_**“**_ Yeah, well––wait, _**‘**_ _bean_ _**’?**_ _**”**_

_**“**_ Human bean. _**‘**_ Lois. _ **’**_ _**“**_

_Ah._ Human _being_. _**“**_ Bean. _**”**_ That’s kinda cute. 

_**“**_ Right. Yeah––I just . . . I dunno, you seemed terrified enough with me; I didn’t think you’d take too well to meeting another, er, _**‘**_ bean. _ **’**_ _**”**_ He shrugs the shoulder opposite the little one. _**“**_ I take it you don’t really . . . _interact_ with us very often. _**”**_

_**“**_ Borrowers avoid being seen. It keeps us safe. Beans can be very . . . _cruel_ to us. _**”**_ Their tiny body shudders, which makes Clark suspect that they’ve got some first-hand experience. He doesn’t want to think about what kind of _**“**_ cruel _**”**_ things people have done. 

_**“**_ Well . . . _**”**_ He assumes that _**“**_ borrower _**”**_ is what they call themselves. _**“**_ I’m sorry to hear that. Tell you what: for as long as you’re with me, I’ll keep you hidden. _**”**_ He offers what he _hopes_ to be a reassuring smile. To his delight, he does feel the borrower release some of that tension. 

_**“**_ I . . . live in that building where you found me . . . _**”**_

_**“**_ In the break room _ **?**_ _**”**_

They nod. 

_**“**_ Do . . . you want me to take you back _ **?**_ _**”**_ That would be awkward, walking back into the Daily Planet just minutes after leaving. He could probably make the excuse that he forgot something . . ..

 _ **“**_ N–no, it’s . . . it would be weird for you to go back when you’re _**‘**_ not feeling well. _**’**_ _**”**_

Yeah, they get it. Clark sighs and looks back to the street beyond the alley. He doesn’t want to just take them home with him if they don’t want to come . . .. 

_**“**_ If you, um–– . . . you could, uh, put me down here, and I––you could put me down and I could get back on my own. _**”**_

His attention snaps back to them, making them flinch at the sudden movement. There was a fair amount of fear not just in their voice, but in their heart. They didn’t like the idea, and neither did Clark. What if they got stepped on, or caught by an animal, or–––

 _ **“**_ You don’t have to do that. I don’t want you to do that. If you’re––if you’re _okay_ with it, you could come home with me, and I’ll bring you back tomorrow. _**”**_

He can tell that they don’t care for that idea either. 

_**“**_ And if I’m . . . _not_ okay with that . . . _ **?**_ _**”**_ There’s a slight quiver in their voice, like they’re fearful of retribution. 

_**“**_ Then . . . I guess I could stay here. Or somewhere else hidden. _**”**_ Not ideal, but he’s done worse. The borrower squirms, twisting in his pocket to better face him. They look quizzical–– _stunned_ , even.

 _ **“**_ Y–you’d . . . do that _ **?**_ _**”**_

_**“**_ Sure. Well––maybe we could move to a library or a coffee shop so I can work, but . . . I won’t take you anywhere you don’t want to go. _**”**_

They fall silent, looking thoughtful. Clark is patient, letting them think and ponder their options. His eyes wander away from them, to the alley, and to the things beyond the alley. There’s someone walking a dog the next street over, some alley cats fighting a ways down . . .––geez, he _really_ doesn’t want to leave the borrower here if there are cats around. 

_**“**_ I’ll . . . I’ll come with you to your home, _**”**_ comes the little voice once more. Clark looks down, his eyes softening. 

_**“**_ You sure _ **?**_ _**”**_

They sink back into his pocket, hiding away for the journey. _**“**_ Yeah. _**”**_

Alright then. Clark waits until they’re settled, then heads back out of the alley. 

* * *

As it turns out, having a borrower in the house is actually quite stressful. Clark had anticipated a transition period for himself and his new companion, but, upon releasing the little being onto his kitchen counter, he quickly realizes that _he_ is the only one in need of adjusting. They seem perfectly at home, rushing off towards the wall to climb something he hadn’t even thought to be climbable _**(**_ much to Clark’s fright _**)**_. Immediately he has to fight back the urge to grab them again, scoop them up and protect them. They scale the wall expertly, jump up onto appliances, clearly at home. His fingers twitch. 

_**“**_ Right then . . .. So you clearly don’t need my help getting around . . .. How long have you been living at the Daily Planet _ **? ”**_

The little one pauses, seemingly a little startled, as if they’d forgotten that he was _right there_. Based on their current path, Clark assumes they were heading for the top of the fridge, where he keeps some cereals and fruits. 

_**“**_ Uh . . . a few months. _**”**_ From how their voice lifts, it sounds more like a question, like there could be a wrong answer. 

_**“**_ _Really **?**_ How have you been there that long and not––– _hey **!**_ _**”**_

He extends his hands under the borrower, but they sail right over, high and far enough to catch the edge of the fridge. They struggle for a moment to regain footing on the smooth side, then pull themselves up on top, looking pleased. Now Clark’s starting to get an idea of how they ended up in their earlier predicament . . .. 

_**“**_ Clark . . . _ **?**_ _**”**_

He snaps from his momentary shock, eyes wide as they settle on the borrower. 

_**“**_ Sorry, you just––do you do that often _ **? ”**_

_**“**_ What _ **?**_ _Jump **?**_ _**”**_ They regard him with a quizzical look. _**“**_ Yeah. I’m not as tall as you beans, so I kinda _have_ to jump. _**”**_

Of course. Makes sense. Clark hides his hands behind his back, feeling a little foolish. It’s second-nature for him to be protective, especially of the helpless. _**(**_ Then again, the borrower doesn’t _seem_ too helpless. _**)**_ How should he offer help without seeming condescending _ **?**_

_**“**_ Okay. Well . . . you know I can . . . _get_ whatever you need _for_ you, right _ **? ”**_ It sounded better in Clark’s head. He grimaces. _**“**_ Not––not that you really _need_ me too, but . . .. _**”**_ There really is no way to make that sound good out loud, is there _ **?**_

_**“**_ I’ll keep that in mind. _**”**_ Soft footsteps scurry over to the bunch of bananas, where the little being starts tugging at the peel. Clark has to stifle the urge to reach up and help them with it. 

This . . . is going to be an interesting night. He’s going to have to be extra careful, extra aware of everything if he’s to avoid accidentally harming his house guest. 

_**“**_ So, uh . . . you never told me your name. You do have one, right _ **?**_ _**”**_

The borrower pulls their head from the fruit, oblivious to little bits of banana stuck in their hair. They finish their chew and swallow, then answer: _**“**_ It’s _**[**_ Y/N _**]**_. _**”**_ Then it’s back into the banana for them. Clark suspects they don’t get much access to fresh fruit in the break room. Maybe he should start _bringing_ some fruit . . .. 

_**“**_ Right. Okay, _**[**_ Y/N _**]**_. I’m gonna set up at the table to work. Just shout if you need me, okay _ **?**_ _**”**_

They’re preoccupied with the banana, but they do shoot him a tiny thumbs up. Interesting. Clark smiles to himself, and heads off to do as he said. Perry’s going to be _pissed_ if Clark doesn’t deliver like he promised. Still, he can’t help but glance over fairly often, checking up on the borrower to make sure they’re safe. 


	7. Jar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [2018 g/t prompt list](http://tiny-rook.tumblr.com/post/178463272795/this-prompt-list-is-brought-to-you-by-lilegite) #8: jar
> 
> merfolk, no matter how small, aren't meant to live in jars. the (future) king of the ocean sees that it doesn't continue. 
> 
> language warning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one takes place between the justice league movie & the aquaman movie

Old floorboards groan in protest with every step he takes into the building. Arthur looks around, surveying the seedy little shop with idle interest. Fishing supplies of all sorts decorate the walls and shelves and displays. 

_**“**_ There’s gotta be a beer in here _somewhere_ , _**”**_ he mutters to himself. Fishermen drink. Surely there’s something to drink in this fishing supply shop. _**(**_ Beer is essential to any fishing trip, after all. _**)**_ Arthur browses the aisles, paying little mind to anything else. He doesn’t need any hooks, any buoys, any fishing poles. He just needs a _beer_. 

_**“**_ _There._ _**”**_ There’s a refrigerated section at the back of the store. Arthur makes a beeline for the first insulated door and yanks it open to eagerly browse the chilled contents. _**“**_ Bait . . . bait . . . more bait . . .. _**”**_ Nothing in this one. Or the next one. Or the next one. Both his disappointment and his frustration grow with every bait-filled, booze-lacking fridge. He approaches the final one, not too hopeful, but determined nonetheless to find his drink. With a heavy sigh, Arthur pulls the door open and bends down, scanning the cups of styrofoam and plastic, all filled with worms or squid pieces or minnows or–––

 _ **“**_ What the hell . . . _ **?**_ _**”**_ One scarred brow shoots up. At the back of the fridge, partially obscured behind several bait containers, he spots a glass jar with what he initially thought to be a very sad-looking betta fish. Closer inspection reveals that it is _not_ a betta. No, it looks more like an impossibly tiny . . . mermaid _ **?**_ Merperson _ **?**_ And they’re not moving. 

Arthur reaches in, pushing aside the bait, and carefully pulls out the jar. The little mer inside doesn’t move, doesn’t respond. They look _dead_. A spike of anxiety rushes over his brain; he has to _do_ something. 

_**“**_ Hey–– _hey_. Little guy. _**”**_ Uncaring of the mess, Arthur unscrews the lid and dumps the contents out into his awaiting hand. The mer is ice cold to the touch, still not moving. He drops the jar and cups both hands around their body, trying to warm them up. Out of growing desperation, he even opts to breathe a few hot breaths onto the mer. 

_**“**_ Ex _cuse_ me _ **!**_ _**”**_ An angry voice shouts from somewhere behind him––the store keeper, no-doubt. He must’ve heard the glass shatter. Arthur rolls his eyes and turns around slowly, not bothering to hide what he has or what he’s doing. 

_**“**_ Yeah, you’ll need one helluvan excuse for _this_. _**”**_ He nods down to his hands, to the half-frozen mer. The store keeper sputters, looking between Arthur and the mer, but can’t seem to form any coherent excuse. 

_**“**_ Y’know what _ **?**_ I don’t wanna hear it. I’m gonna walk outta here _without_ tearing this place apart so I can get this guy some help, and you’re not gonna do or say _shit_. Got it _ **?**_ _**”**_ He doesn’t give him a chance to answer, though. He shoves past, nearly knocking the man over, and holds the mer close to his person. They’re so small, weighing almost _nothing_ in his hands. 

Back outside, quest for beer forgotten _**(**_ for the moment _**)**_ , Arthur heads for the piers. He huffs a few more breaths onto the little being, his concern growing with every passing minute. Carefully, he moves them so he can rest his thumb gently atop their chest _**(**_ never mind that his thumb is larger than their _whole body_ _**)**_ and feel for a heartbeat. 

_**“**_ C’mon, small fry, c’mon . . . _alright **!**_ _**”**_ Heartbeat found. It’s faint, but it’s there. Arthur stops at the end of the pier and sits down, all focus on the mer. Slowly but surely, they seem to be warming up, coming to. First their fins start to twitch, and then their arms. Eventually, they start shivering and wriggling around, disoriented, but _alive_. Arthur gives one final puff of air, but stops quickly when he hears them cough and groan. 

He _swears_ he heard them say something about how his breath smells. _Little shit_. 

_**“**_ Easy there, fella. You’re still pretty cold. _**”**_

They stop _**(**_ save for the shivering _**)**_ when they hear his voice, and slowly look around. Arthur gathers they hadn’t yet figured out where they were. He offers a smile when they look up at him, but the _**“**_ _friendly_ _**”**_ vibe he’s going for doesn’t seem to land. The mer squeaks and curls in on themselves, cowering in his palm. 

_**“**_ Woah, hey, hey––– _**”**_ Unexpected, but not entirely unreasonable, considering the circumstances. Arthur would probably freak out of he found himself in some giant’s hand too. His fingers cup just a little more around the tiny body. _**“**_ Calm down, buddy. Some douche canoe had you holed up in a bait fridge; I got you out. You’re safe now. _**”**_

His words don’t seem to help much, but Arthur isn’t too keen on letting them go just yet. He’d like to get them a bit warmer. 

_**“**_ Name’s Arthur. Or . . . I guess more people know me as _Aquaman_. You got a name, or am I just gonna keep coming up with more nicknames _ **?**_ _**”**_

_**“**_ Y-you’re . . . Aquaman _ **?**_ **”**

Oh, so they’ve heard of him. Interesting. 

_**“**_ Yep, that’s me. _**”**_

Motor skills seem to be coming back to the little form slowly. Arthur opens his hands a bit more as they start to move. They sit up, tail curled under them. Now that they’ve got some warmth in them, their colors seem to be coming back too. In the fridge, they’d been awfully grey and drab; now they’re showing some lively blues and greens. 

_**“**_ I’m––I’m _**[**_ Y/N _**]**_. _**”**_ And their voice is getting stronger. The fear seems to ease from them. _**“**_ Th–thank you, Aquaman. I don’t . . . I didn’t think I would . . .––– _**”**_

Arthur’s features soften. _**“**_ Hey, don’t stress over it. You’re free. I’ll let you into the water after you stop shivering, alright _ **?**_ _**”**_ _Now_ he’s giving off the friendly vibes. Good. This is good. _**“**_ So, how’d you end up in that asshole’s fridge _ **?**_ _**”**_

_**“**_ I . . .. _**”**_ Nervous energy seems to run through them, which is another good sign. The more they move, the better. It means they’re recovering. _**“**_ It’s kind of a blur . . .. I was just foraging for food and supplies when . . . I think I got caught in a net. I must have passed out, because I remember waking up in the jar, and––and . . .––– _**”**_ More shivering. Arthur’s thumb brushes their side in an attempt to comfort. It must be working; they latch right on, hugging as best they can. 

_**“**_ Alright, alright. It’s okay now. You’re not going back in the jar. _**”**_ Now, though, Arthur can’t help but wonder just how many of these little mers there are. Surely it’d make the news if they’d ever been seen before, right _ **?**_ Or maybe not. . .. Lips turn down in a frown. 

_**“**_ Were you the only one caught _ **?**_ _**”**_ Heaven forbid, if he has to go back in that store and _search_ for any more stolen sea life . . .–––

 _ **“**_ Yes. Yes, I––I was the only one. Just me. Always just me. _**”**_

Now that gets a raised brow. Arthur regards _**[**_ Y/N _**]**_ with a quizzical stare, lips pursed in thought. Wouldn’t it be dangerous for a small fry to travel alone _ **?**_ It seems like they’d be an easy snack for a bigger fish . . .. 

_**“**_ So . . . are you gonna be alright once you’re back in the water ** _?_** Or is there somewhere I can take you _ **?**_ Maybe to friends or family . . . _ **?**_ _**”**_ Anything, really. Now that he’s thinking about it, Arthur doesn’t much like the idea of just dropping them into the water and letting them fend for themselves again––not so soon after this whole ordeal. 

_**“**_ Oh, um––I–I’ll be okay. _**”**_ They look away, a little sheepish. _**(**_ It’s kinda cute _**)**_. 

_**“**_ _**[**_ Y/N _**]**_. Do you know how much you weigh to me _ **?**_ _**”**_ It’s a rhetorical question. _**“**_ I can _take_ you somewhere, if you want. If there’s somewhere safer––well, where’s _**‘**_ _home_ _**’ ? ”**_

_**“**_ Um . . . _**”**_ Do they . . . not have a home _ **?**_ The mer twists in his hand and peeks over his fingers, looking out to the sea. _**“**_ I was living in an old snail shell . . .. I don’t know where it is from here. _**”**_

The thought of the little guy living in a shell like a hermit crab is briefly amusing, but Arthur brings his focus back to the matter at hand. _**“**_ Alright, we’ll figure it out, _**”**_ he says, pulling one hand away so he can push himself off the pier. His other hand closes to keep _**[**_ Y/N _**]**_ from getting swept away as they plunge into the ocean. Once all stills, he opens up once more, and the mer looks around. They hover over his open palm, not daring to venture farther. 

_**“**_ If we can’t find your shell. Or we can find you a new shell. Or a new place to live that isn’t a shell. _**”**_ Just a suggestion. Living in a shell kinda sounds like it sucks. Then again, Arthur isn’t thumb-sized. 

_**“**_ You don’t, uh––you don’t have to . . .. _**”**_ Yet they still do huddle into his hand again. So much open water must be nerve-wracking for such a small being. 

_**“**_ Nope. But I want to. _**”**_ Taking them back into his hold, ever-gentle, Arthur pulls them nearer to his chest to shelter them as he starts to swim. 

The beer can wait. Right now, Aquaman’s help is needed. 


	8. Toy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [2018 g/t prompt list](http://tiny-rook.tumblr.com/post/178463272795/this-prompt-list-is-brought-to-you-by-lilegite) #10: toy
> 
> john constantine finds himself caught in a peculiar situation. the last thing he needs is a bloody _green lanturn_ to bother him
> 
> strong language warning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> is this halblazer _ **?**_ _maaaaaybe_ :>

_**“**_ _Constantine **!**_ _**”**_

God _fucking_ dammit. . .. More than he cares to admit, the voice, now much more booming than he’s used to, does startle John. The subsequent heavy _bangs_ on the door certainly aren’t very pleasant either, each one sending a jolt through his bones and his very being. 

_**“**_ What the bloody fuck is he doing here. . .. _**”**_ Jaw clenched tight, John winces under another assault to the door, and another shout from the outside. Noises are bigger right now. _Everything_ is bigger, considering John’s newfound state of existence, standing at a solid three inches tall. 

_**“**_ I know you’re in there, Constantine. _**”**_

_How the hell does he–––_

_**“**_ Zatanna told me how to find this freaky house of yours. Said someone should check on your for whatever reason, so come _on_. I don’t have all day. _**”**_

_Good_. Maybe that means he’ll leave if no one answers. John would rather not be found in his current predicament anyway––least of all by _Hal Jordan_. Christ, he would never hear the end of it from him, and he’d go blabbing about it to everyone else too. No thank you. 

_**“**_ Come in. _**”**_ _God dammit, Orchid **!**_ Her silky voice rings through the house, almost as if coming from the very walls. From where he is, John peeks around the corner, down the hallway to the now open door, Just beyond the House’s alien-looking avatar stands one very confused man in black and green spandex. That’s definitely a space cop if John ever saw one. The real question is: why is _he_ here _ **?**_ And the next two questions to follow are how did Zatanna know something was up, and why the _hell_ did the House of Mystery let Hal in _ **?**_

_**“**_ You are looking for John. He is this way. _**”**_ _Orchid **!**_ John berates the House under his breath, and ducks back into his room just as he sees Orchid turn around and look directly at him. There’s no hiding from her; she _is_ the House, and she seems intent on leading the lantern right to him. _Damn her._

_**“**_ Uh, o-kay. . .. Who are you again _ **? ”**_ Hal’s voice sounds even more obnoxious from so high up. 

_**“**_ I am Black Orchid. John is in here, but he seems to be experiencing some difficulties right now. _**”**_ She steps aside and gestures for Hal to enter the room, which he does, despite his growing confusion. _**“**_ He is under the desk. _**”**_

_**“**_ He’s. . . under the desk _ **? ”**_ Clearly the lantern is lost, but his gaze does fall to the desk. John knows he’s not quite fast enough; his eyes meet Hal’s for a split second before he ducks behind one of the legs. He has little time to mutter any curses to the house or the cop, though, as he quickly finds himself encased in a capsule of green light and lifted. He is helpless against the jostling and the lurching as he’s pulled from his hiding spot and brought out into the open, right before that rubbery mask. _Fuck_ , Jordan’s a lot bigger up close like this. John isn’t one to be intimidated, but, right now, he’s certainly not comfortable. 

At first, Hal doesn’t say anything _**(**_ for once in his life _**)**_. John can feel him studying him, trying to work out what’s going on. Is it too late to convince him that this is all an illusion _ **?**_

_**“**_ Oi, if you’re just gonna _stare_ , you can put me the hell down _ **!**_ _**”**_ One tiny fist beats at the wall of light in protest. John isn’t overly fond of heights; being suspended in nothing but focus-powered green stuff over a fairly _long_ drop is not his ideal situation. _Nothing_ about this right now is his ideal situation. 

Perhaps he should have counted his blessings, though. The silent Hal is a rare privilege, and far more preferable to what comes next: the _laughing_ Hal. John covers his ears and ducks his head under that first heavy _bark_ of laughter. Each one to follow too is so damn _loud_. It feels like John is being shaken apart by sound. One blessing he _can_ still count is that his little containment pod doesn’t shake with the lantern’s movement; the man’s practically convulsing with laughter, while John, despite feeling like his eardrums are going to burst at any moment, is pretty stationary. 

_**“**_ _**Hey!**_ Glad to see _you’re_ having a good laugh there, mate, but I’m kinda busy right now _ **!**_ If you’d kindly shut up and _fuck off_ , that’d be _great **!**_ _**”**_ If only he could be so lucky, though. The sphere moves, and the movement sends John stumbling back onto his rear, his irritation growing by the second. Brows furrowed, he stares up at Hal through the green film. 

_**“**_ Wh––hold on––what the hell happened to _you_ , Constantine _ **?**_ Get caught up with some sort of cricket demon or something _ **?**_ _**”**_ Before John can answer, though, the green around him vanishes, leaving him to fall with a yelp into Hal’s gloved hand below. Oh, no sir, he does not like this. It’s squishy and warm, and the sound of this rubbery uniform scrunching together grates his ears. John scrambles to stand up, a little wobbly in the giant palm. The still-present chuckling isn’t helping much either. 

_**“**_ Let’s leave it at _**‘**_ _or something,_ _**’**_ yeah _ **?**_ Now put me down _ **!**_ I need to figure out how to––– _**”**_

_**“**_ –––I’m sorry, your voice is so _squeaky_ right now. I can’t take you at all seriously like this. _**”**_ Without any warning or consideration, Hal pinches one of John’s legs between his free index and forefinger and pulls him up, dangling him upside down while he flails helplessly. 

_**“**_ _Mother fu_ ––put me the **hell** down, you bastard _ **!**_ I’m not a bloody _toy_ , and I’m damn-sure not playing with you right now _ **!**_ _**”**_ It isn’t getting him anywhere, and he _knows_ he can’t break Hal’s grip on his leg, but John continues to kick and wriggle, hoping that the notion will mean more than his actual strength. 

Unfortunately, this is Hal. While he isn’t the worst of the space cops, he’s still not the most agreeable, especially not in cases like this. 

_**“**_ So, what _ **?**_ You’re able to fix this, right _ **?**_ Or are you–– _snrk_ ––are you stuck like this forever _ **?**_ _**”** _Hal looks so damn smug right now, and endlessly amused. John’s face is red, both from his embarrassment and frustration, and from the blood rushing to his head. 

_**“**_ I can fix it. I was in the middle of _trying_ to fix it when you showed up and started acting like a right prick _ **!**_ Quit––– _**”**_ That’s enough. John rubs his hands together and summons a bang of fire. It’s more like a _pop_ at this scale––like a little bang snap––but it does as intended: it startles Hal into letting him go, though he’s quickly caught again after a few inches’ fall. 

_**“**_ Woah––easy there. Are you fuckin’ nuts _ **? ”**_ Those hands close around John now, holding him more securely. It’s not much of an improvement, but at least he’s upright again. _**“**_ Dumb question. I know you’ve got a few screws loose in the noggin’. _**”**_

_**“**_ You’re one to talk. _**”**_ John wriggles and pulls one arm free, then the other. _**“**_ I’ve got this under control, copper. Now, if you’d be so kind as to let me––– _**”**_

_**“**_ Go _ **?**_ Oh, fat chance, sour patch. _**”**_ Hal shifts his hold, transferring John to one hand, fingers curled firmly around his middle. With his other, he pulls out his cellphone, much to John’s horror. 

_**“**_ Jordan, I swear to every god and devil and demon out there––if you take any pictures, I am going to make your life _hell_. _**”**_

_**“**_ You’re not very threatening when you’re normal-sized. How do you think you sound right now _ **?**_ _**”**_

_Like a fucking joke_ , he imagines. The camera flashes, leaving John blinded for a moment. He swears on his mother’s grave that he will make Hal pay for this once he’s back to normal. **Somehow.**

_**“**_ _Great_. Now that you’ve immortalized the moment, why don’t you be a pal and––– _**”**_

_**“**_ Hey, d’ya think whatever the hell shrunk you could do the same to Batman _ **?**_ I’d _love_ to see Spooky all doll-sized. _**”**_ Hal’s grip loosens just a smidge as he lifts John up higher, more near eye-level. John has to force himself _not_ to look down, and try _not_ to focus on the fact that he’s being held by an imbecile. 

Why did it have to be _this_ lantern that came to check on him _ **?**_ Or any lantern at all _ **?**_ Or _anyone **?**_ What the hell is Zatanna doing sending people to _check up_ on John _ **?**_

_**“**_ If I were to turn that little monstrosity on anyone, it’d be _you_ , you overgrown prick. _**”**_ This is getting very old very quickly. _**“**_ Alright, Jordan, you’ve had your fun. _Let me go_. **Now**. _**”**_ And for a moment, it almost looks like Hal means to comply, but that goofy, shit-eating grin is back on his face just as quickly as it left. 

_**“**_ _Nah._ I’ve gotta show you to the rest of the league. _**”**_


	9. Sweets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [2019 g/t prompt list](https://tiny-rook.tumblr.com/post/187539075180/a-new-prompt-list-for-inktober-or-all-your-other) #6: sweets
> 
> arthur morgan, hardened killer and gunslinging badass, shares a sweet treat with his tiny friend
> 
> mild language warning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you like this chapter, you're in luck: i have _several_ other pieces featuring devin and the van der linde gang :>
> 
> also some notes: devin is nonbinary and does not care what pronouns people use to refer to them :>

Tiny hands grip on the hard, metal band that seals the jar’s lid that separates the sweet, syrupy peaches from the world, and from _Devin_. They grunt in frustration, teeth gritted and knuckles white, as they pull again, trying again to dislodge the band, but it’s not budging. At this point, it feels like they’d sooner tear off their arms than loosen this screw. 

_**“**_ Need help with that _ **?**_ _**”**_ The voice comes from above and behind, soft, but still quite booming to a borrower. Devin releases their hold and spins around, back pressed to the glass, eyes wide and staring up, up, _up_ at the giant of a man towering over her. Even when crouched, he’s still _so damn tall_. 

_**“**_ Mr. Morgan––– _**”**_ _Arthur_. They kick themself; the man has told them multiple times now that they don’t have to be so formal. _**“**_ –––er . . . if you wouldn’t mind . . .. _**”**_

Arthur doesn’t seem to pressed about his name––not that he ever is, not with Devin. Reminders are always gentle and good-natured when he gives them. The corners of his eyes crinkle just a bit more in time with his widening smile. He always seems to have a smile when regarding Devin. More often than not, they have a blush to match, though it’s not something they acknowledge, and Arthur has yet to point it out _**(**_ thank _god **)**_. 

_**“**_ Don’t mind at all. I offered, didn’t I _ **?**_ _**”**_ The borrower scurries aside, ducking away from the large hand that sails overhead. Fingers as tall and thick as their whole body grip the jar by the lid and lift it easily from the ground. It’s equal parts astounding and intimidating, watching Arthur move. Devin can’t help but stare. Menial tasks––something as simple as opening a jar––to him are incredibly difficult, if not _impossible_ to them. The strength matches the man, of course. It’s easy to remember that those jar-opening hands could so easily cause something Devin’s size insidious harm, hence the ever-present intimidation. They’ve only known him a short time––just a few weeks; while they won’t run at the sight of him, there’s still room for some trust to build. Arthur is patient, though, and exceptionally respectful of their boundaries and discomforts.

The lid _pops_ up, uprooted with the blade of a knife once the band’s removed. Arthur tucks the knife away in the holder he’d fished it from and gives the canned fruit a sniff. 

_**“**_ Got a sweet tooth _ **?**_ _**”**_ There’s that smile again _**(**_ not that it ever went away _**)**_. Devin feels their cheeks warm. Arthur sets down the opened jar and leans back on his heels, arms coming to rest on the bends of his knees. 

_**“**_ Something like that. _**”**_ Sweet tooth _ **?**_ General hunger _ **?**_ A little bit of both. Devin props themself up on their tiptoes and reaches over the lip of the jar to tear off a piece of peach. They have little regard for the sweet juices that drip down their arms and chin, onto their clothes, as they take a few _**(**_ relatively _**)** _big bites. Cheeks stuffed as they chew, they step away from the jar again and look up at Arthur. A jerk of their head directs the cowboy’s attention back to the jar. 

_**“**_ Offerin’ me some of my own peaches _ **?**_ Well, ain’t you a sweet one. _**”**_ He winks, and Devin blushes, head ducked. Were they a mouse, sneaking into Arthur’s tent and breaking into his food, they aren’t sure that he would be so kind. Then again, the cowboy’s got quite the soft heart when it comes to small creatures. He chuckles, that low rumble shaking Devin’s bones, and fishes into the jar. The slice he pulls out is as tall as Devin, which he pops into his mouth all at once. That slice alone could feed them for a whole day, but it’s just a mouthful to him . . .. 

_**“**_ Somethin’ on my face, Miss Clarke _ **?**_ _**”**_ He regards the borrower with a raised brow as he sucks the lingering sweetness from his fingers. They blink and quickly look away, realizing now that they’ve been staring _**(**_ _again_ _**)**_. 

_**“**_ Just _Devin_ , _**”**_ they correct. It seems like they both have a habit to break. _**“**_ Er––yeah. A little bit on your . . . _**”**_ they gesture to the corner of their mouth, mirroring the location of a smudge on Arthur’s face. It’s easily taken care of with the swipe of a thumb. 

Devin finishes off their piece of peach, and opts to tear off another chunk. Arthur settles down on his cot with another slice for himself, taking it in a few bites this time. Once finished, he lies back with his hat covering his eyes, like he’s ready to nap for a little bit, but he doesn’t get very far along. A slight calamity rouses him, prompts him to peek out again to see the jar tipped over and the little borrower covered in more of the peach syrup. Devin stares up at him, looking a little frightened, like they think he might react poorly to the mess. 

_**“**_ I tried to close it, _**”**_ they defend quickly, body tensing further as Arthur pushes himself up again. He leans forward, hunched over them, smile lopsided. He looks . . . _amused_. 

_**“**_ Sweet a’ you. Could’a just asked me to do it though, li’l miss. _**”**_ The nickname has Devin blinking. So he’s . . . _not_ mad. That’s good. They start to relax, but they stiffen back up when Arthur’s hands drift closer, righting the toppled jar and securing the lid and band back into place. 

_**“**_ You looked like you were about to sleep . . .. _**”**_ The borrower shakes their arms, trying to rid their person of some of the spilled juices. 

_**“**_ Hey . . . _**”**_ Arthur’s attention returns to Devin, his features gentle and kind. Devin swears they feel their heart skip a beat. _**“**_ Don’t you ever worry about botherin’ me, you hear _ **?**_ Don’t care if it’s the middle of the night; if you want me to open a jar of peaches for you, you just let me know, alright _ **?**_ _**”**_

Devin can only nod, a little dumbfounded by such an offer. Arthur Morgan is not the first human they’ve met, but he’s by _far_ the nicest, the most respectful, the most _accepting_. Every meeting affirms more that he is a _friend._

 _ **“**_ Y’need to wash off _ **?**_ _**”**_ His words snap Devin out of their thoughts again, prompting them to look down at their soaked clothes. All of this syrup is bound to get sticky and smelly, neither of which are good for a borrower in a world of predators. 

_**“**_ Uhm . . . yeah . . .. _**”**_ Though the nearest water is in the middle of the campsite, and no doubt in buckets far taller than Devin can reach. They can _climb_ , sure, but it’s a risky move in the middle of the day . . .. 

_**“**_ Y’need help _ **? ”**_ Arthur moves the resealed jar aside, stowing it for later access, then returns with his elbows propped on his knees. Such sudden movements might have made Devin flinch a few weeks ago, but now they just tense and hold their ground. _**(**_ Arthur is a _friend_. He means no harm. _**)**_ _**“**_ I can get you some soap n’ water, but, uh . . .. _**”**_ he trails off and looks away. Devin could _swear_ they see a bit of pink rising in his cheeks. _**“**_ Do you have another change of clothes _ **?**_ Or . . .. _**”**_

_Oh boy_. Devin’s own cheeks go pink. 

_**“**_ Uh, i think––– _**”**_ They quickly pull their collar and glance down, _**“**_ –––yeah, it’s just my dress that’s dirty. My under clothes are fine. _**”**_ Before the juices can soak through, though, Devin turns her back to Arthur and starts to shed that dress, pulling it off over her head. 

_**“**_ Alright . . .. _**”**_ Arthur, in a move Devin finds rather endearing, looks away, staring blankly at the canvas wall of his tent while they disrobe. It only takes a moment for them to get their dirtied dress off, and face the gunslinger once more, now clad in their undershirt & long underwear. The dress is rolled up and tucked up under their arm. 

_**“**_ Okay _ **!**_ I, uh, I just need that soap and water now . . .. _**”**_ They give Arthur a sheepish smile, trying hard not to blush any more. Oh, but they aren’t nearly as flustered as Arthur is; he’s still barely looking at them. 

_**“**_ Sure, sure. Do you, uh, want me to bring you some here, or do you wanna go to it, or I could wash your clothes, or . . . _ **?**_ _**”**_

_Ah_ , their heart. This human is quite the gentleman, doing his best to try and make Devin feel comfortable. They can’t help but chuckle and shake their head. 

_**“**_ You’re very kind, but no, if you just bring it here, I can wash my own clothes. Thank you, Arthur. _**”**_

_**“**_ Sure. Be right back, then. _**”**_ He’s quick to hurry off. Devin could _swear_ he’s trying to hide under his hat. When he returns, too, just a few minutes later, there’s still some lingering pink on his cheeks. _**(**_ Who knew a human could be . . . _cute **?**_ _**)**_

With one coffee cup of plain water and another with soapy water, Devin takes to washing their garment, scrubbing and rubbing and wringing it with their hands, and then rinsing it off. A few more wrings to squeeze out some of the water, and then they hold it up, looking for stains. 

_**“**_ Okay. I just need to hang this–––oh. _**”**_ They peek at Arthur over their dress, only now noticing that he seems to have dozed off like he’d planned to do prior to this incident. He hums a brief note; Devin has woken him up again. 

_**“**_ Oh, um––sorry, I––you can sleep. I can handle . . .. _**”**_ Their voice quiets and trails off, eyes following the man’s rise from his bed to tower over them. He sure does look ready for a nap, but the sleepiness doesn’t mask the softness in his features. If anything, it almost seems to compliment it. 

His approaching hand pulls the borrower from their thoughts. They clutch their damp dress closer to their chest as that hand settles just before them, palm up. Arthur gives them a gentle, encouraging smile. 

_**“**_ Give it here. I’ll hang it up somewhere high so it can dry. I can hide it too so no one’ll catch a look n’ ask questions. _**”**_ His fingers twitch a little, as if beckoning. Devin can’t help their hesitation; this is the closest either of them have been to touching each other. 

Arthur is a _friend_ , they remind themself. 

With a deep breath, they lean forward and settle the dress down over his fingers. The sight is almost comical; it looks like it could dress his pinky, like a little finger puppet. Hell, it might still be too small. They step back, and he pulls the dress away to fasten it up in the overhangs of his tent, out of view from anyone on the outside. 

_**“**_ There. Shouldn’t take too long to dry, bein’ so small n’ all . . .. _**”**_ He glances back down at them, lips tightening for a moment. _**“**_ You gonna be okay in the meantime _ **?**_ You’re more n’ welcome to stick around in here. _**”**_

He must recognize that they’re about to say something about not wanting to disturb him. He raises a hand, cutting short any such protest before it can start. 

_**“**_ Now now, li’l miss Devin, don’t you worry about bein’ a bother. Told ya already: you ain’t nothin’ of the sort. _**”**_ There he goes again with that smile . . .. They look down at their shoes, hands clasped behind their back. 

_**“**_ Uhm . . . I mean, I’ll need your help getting it down anyway, so . . .. _**”**_ It’s not like they really have anywhere to be at the moment, or for a little while, either. They look back up at Arthur, just a bit bashful. _**“**_ Promise I won’t bother you again for a while, though. You look like you’re needing that nap you’ve been trying to take. _**”**_

As if on cue, the man looks away and covers his mouth as he yawns. 

_**“**_ _Yep_. I wouldn’t mind some shut-eye. But don’t you worry about–––err . . .. _**”**_ He pauses mid-sentence, eyeing Devin as they start to scale the side of his boot. His hands come down, nearing them, likely meaning to help them up, but they wave them back. 

_**“**_ I can do this. Don’t mind me. _**”**_ They’ve been climbing things their whole life; what’s a boot and a pant leg _ **?**_ His bed, they reckon, is safer than the ground for now. Arthur’s hands still hover for a few moments longer, but a little extra waving wards them off. Once they’re up on the bed top, they notice Arthur visibly relax. At this point, they shouldn’t be too surprised that he seems to be concerned for their safety, but it does still stir up a feeling within them that they can’t quite place. _**(**_ _Butterflies **?**_ That’s the human term, right _ **?**_ _**)**_

_**“**_ I’m good. Go on, take your nap. I can tend to myself. _**”**_ The borrower waves their hands at him some more, to which he shakes his head and smirks. Yes, they can be cheeky too. Arthur moves slowly, carefully, settling himself down on his back for a third and _**(**_ hopefully _**)**_ final time. 

_**“**_ Now, like I said, li’l miss: don’t worry ‘bout wakin’ me up if ya need somethin’. Just shout or give my ear a tug or, I dunno. You ain’t botherin’ me none. _**”**_ He turns his head to face Devin, now only about a foot away. Up so close, he can see their features better, their face full of freckles, but the gentleman in him _**(**_ albeit one that he refuses to acknowledge _**)**_ stops him from staring too much. Hat settled over his eyes, he takes a final deep breath, crosses his arms over his chest, and, within minutes, has dozed off. This time, Devin intends to let him rest. 

Devin moves up and around, navigating the bedroll until they come to the right side of Arthur’s head. The brim of his hat shades them and shields them from plain view here. The sound of his breathing is . . . oddly soothing, too. 

Perhaps they could take a little nap of their own while they wait for their dress to dry. 


End file.
